Hey Arnold: The Other Side of Helga (After the Jungle Season 2)
by originella
Summary: Now in their teens, Helga is on the other side of things as she considers her years of dating Arnold, plus the notion that it did not necessarily have to end that way. Now that Arnold is living in New York, following his dreams, Helga misses him terribly. After an event causes her to break off from her family, Helga gets advice on how to keep Arnold in her life on her own terms.
1. Mandatory Retreat

Chapter Eleven: Mandatory Retreat

I gaze down at the ticket gripped in my hands, the date June 22, 2020 staring back at me—the ticket itself was nearly two years old, and yet it feels like yesterday. It was the first trip I took since entering Hillwood Academy, and the last one I took between that and getting emancipated. I run my hands over the destination—Los Angeles, California—where Olga had ultimately taken a job in the faculty division of UCLA, and how breakdowns had happened all around. The trip itself wasn't all palm trees and orange groves—no, it had been an eye-opening experience, one that I would not soon forget...

. . .

" _Ladies and gentleman, please fasten your seatbelts and put your tray tables in their traditional upright position. We are making our descent into Los Angeles International Airport, where the weather is beautiful, with an average temperature of seventy-five degrees and sunshine expected for the rest of the day and the remainder of the week. We hope you have enjoyed flying with Jet Blue Airlines today, and we hope you enjoy your trip."_

 _I hasten to put up my tray table and fasten my seatbelt, clandestinely reaching into my carry-on bag to check my face. The fifteen-year-old I had become stared back at me; she had many months ago traded in her shimmering pink lip gloss for the mature red lipstick she sported now, and her eyelashes were a deep shade of black and professionally curled upwards with the help of mascara and a curling wand. It was hardly a shock to her now, seeing herself like this, her cheeks naturally pink in excitement, and her nails matching her lips, which could be seen as she pursed her lips and clicked her compact mirror shut._

 _I slipped my bag halfway under the seat, lest a flight attendant walk by and scold me, and turned to stare out the window as the ground approached. I could see the numerous backyards sported pools—with their water the perfect shade of blue reflected from their tiled bases—and a slight twinge of envy flowed through me. I straightened in my seat as we arrived at the edge of the airport, landing smoothly and skidding slightly on the runway. We approached our gate in no time and soon the first-class passengers—me among them—got to our feet and made grabs for our belongings before waiting for the doors to open. When they did, we made for them quickly, nearly stumbling over one another in an effort to exit this plane, which had become hot and stuffy throughout the trip, and all we wanted to do was grab our luggage and move on._

 _I followed the signs to baggage claim and soon found it, the chrome carousel a few colors than just the standard gray, for some individuals had felt the need to stick their old, unwanted gum to it, and my mind momentarily flashed to the replica I'd made of Arnold out of that very same substance. Dashing the thought from my mind, I saw my suitcase come into view and grabbed it, adjusting my laptop case and my carry-on bag as I did so, making my way to where Olga had said she would be fetching me. It took no more than five minutes and when I saw her, her third bare finger upon her left hand did nothing to phase me, although little Eilis seemed very pleased to see her Aunt Helga. She was nearly a year old, and hardly seemed to know that she had a father and a twin brother in New York, who were likely missing her._

" _Hey, baby sister," Olga said, embracing me and holding me for a moment, and I greeted her before I turned my attention to my niece._

" _Hey, sweetheart," I said, leaning over and kissing her on the cheek, to which Eilis squealed and immediately held her arms out. I took her instantly, while Olga took my suitcase as we walked along. "How's she been?" I asked, nodding down to the playful child in my arms, already babbling with excitement._

" _If you mean 'Does she miss her father and brother?' no, she doesn't," my sister replied, her tone nearly clipped as we hopped onto an escalator towards the parking garage. "In fact, she doesn't seem to remember them at all. I can't explain it, Helga, but I'm kind of glad."_

" _Are you?" I ask._

 _She nods, stepping off the escalator ahead of me and walking towards the exit. "I mean, sure—one day I hope to re-introduce them, but I don't want all the resentment of the separation. I mean, they're_ twins _, Helga," she says, lowering her voice, although Eilis is distracted by all the strangers walking around us. "I just don't want her to be mad at me..."_

" _Well, hopefully when you explain to her your reasons for divorcing your husband, she won't have any resentment towards you," I say quietly._

" _Hopefully," Olga puts in._

 _We reach the parking garage and continue onwards to Olga's car; my sister opens the trunk and places my suitcase into it, while I open the back door of the driver's side and manage to strap Eilis into her car seat. She giggles a bit as I make a grab for one of her toys, handing it over to her as I hasten out of the way, while Olga checks over how I've gotten her into her car seat. I make my way to the other side of the car, letting myself into the passenger side and placing my laptop case and carry-on bag at my feet before buckling myself in._

" _I was thinking we'd head back to my place and relax for a while," Olga tells me as she gets into the driver's side and shuts her door. "I have a babysitter tonight for Eilis and I made us a reservation at this wonderful bistro, where we can get dinner and go see a movie afterwards. Sound okay?"_

 _I nodded. "Sounds perfect," I reply, peeking in the backseat at Eilis. "Is she good with babysitters...?"_

" _This babysitter is more of a nanny," Olga explains as she sticks her keys into the ignition and starts her car. "Paulo has been a god-send—literally."_

" _Paulo, huh?" I say, my eyebrows rising and falling._

" _It's not like that," Olga assures me as she pulls out of the parking space. "Paulo lives with his boyfriend, Seymour, about three miles from my house. And besides, the divorce doesn't go through until September, at least. And there's no way I'm ready to date yet..."_

 _I nodded. "Understood," I reply as Olga finds a fast route out of the parking garage and onto the main stretch of road, palm trees dotting every surface. "I mean, do you think you'd ever be open to dating again?"_

" _Maybe, at some point in the distant future," Olga says quietly as the three of us approach the freeway. "If he was good with Eilis and with me and was kind and respectful and all my other boxes were checked... I might..." She turned and looked over at me for a moment. "How's the single life treating you? I mean, you were with Arnold for a good three years there..."_

 _I shrug, really not needing my sister to tell me how long I had been dating the love of my life. "I know..."_

" _Not good, huh?" she asks. "The boys across the street at Hillwood Preparatory aren't good enough for you?"_

 _I scoff. "Most of them are from P.S. 118—so I've known them forever. If I didn't like them before, I likely wouldn't now..."_

" _Well, this trip is just what you need to get out of the rut you're in," Olga said brightly as we get onto the freeway._

" _I'm not in a—" I protest. "I didn't say I was in a—"_

 _Olga smiles. "You didn't have to," she tells me gently. "We're sisters. I think I happen to know when something's bothering you," she explains. "What is bothering you, Helga? Was it something Arnold said?"_

" _No," I reply, shaking my head. "It's something I didn't."_

. . .

The only word to properly describe Hillwood Academy was commonplace, and that was stretching things, especially with the student body. I did every project I could with Phoebe, and we would constantly match our schedules, although I did give her a reprieve at lunchtime when she went into the communal restaurant on campus, for both the academy and Hillwood Preparatory. There, she would talk to Gerald—who I knew was still in contact with Arnold and would likely inform him of my goings-on—but it's not like it mattered.

The word spread quickly that Arnold and I had called it quits from the moment I turned my back on him at the airport. My only opinion on the matter was the fact that I didn't have to say anything, and the kids at Hillwood Academy would almost immediately back off when threatened by Old Betsy and the Five Avengers. The worst of it came from the Academy Annual—which was printed three times a week, so the title itself didn't work—and the Preparatory Periodical, reaching out to me for a comment on how it felt to start high school single.

Once I was caught on camera threatening violence, however, did I have to inform the principal that my civil liberties were being threatened, and then I found myself threatened with anger management courses. Such a thing was quick to rub me the wrong way, so I very nearly threatened the authority figures, which, I knew, would throw me head-on into academic probation. It was easy to tell that they were playing favorites, so I simply said that I didn't wish to be bothered about my personal life, and left it at that. I had no further trouble on the matter, although I could have done without the evil stares from both newspapers.

"You really shouldn't trouble yourself about it, Helga," Phoebe said gently to me one afternoon before lunch, as I walked her towards the customary drop-off point, where she would meet Gerald. "Sure, freedom of speech is important and all that, but it shouldn't come at the price of wounding others."

I nodded. "You're right, but I'm sure you knew that," I replied, smiling at her as I stopped at the doors. "See you after lunch, I guess."

"Oh, no, Helga," Phoebe said, opening the door and hesitating. "Gerald and I would like you to join us this afternoon."

"Really, Phoebe, you don't have to be nice like this," I said quickly. "I'm sure that Gerald would like some alone time with you—"

"Of course he would, but we have our bi-weekly and weekend study sessions at alternating houses in the evenings," Phoebe replied sweetly. "Besides, he asked for you personally to come to lunch."

I sighed. "Really, Phoebe, I doubt that he—" I am suddenly silenced by Phoebe all but shoving her cell phone into my face, and the words, _Bring Helga to lunch this afternoon_ , stamped upon the message from Gerald. "Fine—my hands are now tied, it seems," I replied ruefully, and followed her outside.

The communal restaurant for Hillwood Academy and Hillwood Preparatory was located via a sky bridge which could only be accessed by being on campus on one of the two schools. One of the sides of the sky bridge opened up to the restaurant itself and had a vast seating area, with the kitchen on the other side. To get inside, you had to scan your student card, and then the restaurant accepted many methods of payment. You could have a food card, or have the money added onto your student card itself, or you could pay with cash, check, or credit card. The only rule was you had to be a student of one of the two schools, an alumni, a faculty member—the faculty members had their own lounge close by the main dining room, and were not permitted to dine with students unless it was a parent/teacher conference arrangement or they were family—or a parent accompanied by your student child.

As Phoebe and I made our way over to the sky bridge, I found I was confident at the height, although the horns and the traffic echoing from below did unsettle me ever so slightly. I lowered my eyes towards the superficial cracks of the sky bridge at my feet, trying my best not to stumble over them as we approached the double doors of the restaurant. They were double-paned glass with long, golden holders to be pulled when someone was inclined to open them, which Phoebe did as we came towards them, scanning her card so as we could get inside.

"There's Gerald in the rounded booth by the window," Phoebe said, joy in her voice as we stepped inside the restaurant, making her way towards him and grinning as he got to his feet and kissed her on the cheek. "Hey," she said shyly as I stepped forward, and forced a smile.

"Hey, babe," he said to Phoebe, grinning at her and taking her coat and backpack and hanging them on the golden hooks attached to the sides of the booth. "Hey, Helga," Gerald went on, squeezing my shoulder briefly before returning to his seat and motioning for the two of us to join him, and Phoebe slipped into the middle of the curved seat. "Do you know how you order here, Helga?" Gerald asked.

I shook my head, hanging up my coat myself and slipping into the booth beside Phoebe, gazing down at the iPad-like screen that was placed on the table. "Is this how it's done?" I asked, indicating it with a wave of my hand.

Gerald nodded. "Yeah! It's really cool, really," he said, leaning in close to Phoebe to see it better. "You click on the kind of food you want—appetizers, soup, salad, _entrée_ s, pasta, pizza, dessert, or drinks, and then you put in your name, student number, and table number, and then the kitchen employees give you an estimated wait time. Thankfully, they give us forty-five minutes for lunch, and most things don't take much more than twenty to thirty minutes."

"Sounds like fun," I reply. "And if you put in your student number, do they just charge it to your student lunch account, like in the cafeteria?"

Gerald nods. "Yeah, at the end of you selecting what you want, you have that option, or the option of other payment methods, too."

I smiled. "Well, that's good—I just put some money in my student account, so I'll hopefully be able to afford some of this stuff."

"It's pretty reasonable," Gerald told me. "Since you're new here, you can go first and get acquainted with the system."

"Can I?" I asked, turning my attention to the iPad, which Phoebe mercifully turned towards me. Once I ordered—a chicken Caesar salad with cranberry juice on the rocks, a small fruit platter, and a slice of chocolate cake with ice cream for dessert, I was pleased with the total of twelve dollars and fifty cents, which I charged to my student account.

"Sorry about the Preparatory Periodical," Gerald said softly as Phoebe began to put in her order—shrimp ramen with all the trimmings, blueberry lemonade, with a nice slice of carrot cake for dessert. "It was a really low thing of them to do, and I'm sorry."

I lowered my eyes to the wood pattern of the table as Phoebe finished ordering, then slipped around Gerald to use the facilities. "And, are you part of the paper itself, or are you just feeling a moral obligation to apologize because you just so happen to go to school there?"

Gerald pressed a few buttons on the machine—pepperoni pizza with a coke and a brownie—and sighed. "I write for the paper," he admitted, sending his order in with a flourish.

I blink. "Oh. Really? I didn't know they accepted freshman onto the creative team," I said quietly. "I thought they typically only allowed sophomores the privilege of writing for them, just like Hillwood Academy."

Gerald sighs. "I sent in a couple of my essays from Simmons last year, and they liked my work enough to take me on as an apprentice."

"But apprentices don't write for it, do they?" I ask.

Gerald looks away. "They are given one feature every two months, and it can be about whatever they want, really..."

I sigh. "Gerald, what did you do?" I ask him.

"Arnold's in... Well, he was in such rough shape from how you ended things. I mean, how could you do it like that?" he demanded, never raising his voice. "It was three years that you were together, Helga—three!—and you just threw it all away because he went out to go after his dreams!"

I shake my head. "Gerald, there are certain things in life that you'll never even begin to understand," I told him quietly as our drinks arrived. I unwrapped my straw and stuck it in between some of the mountainous ice cubes and sipped my drink. "In life, Gerald, there are certain things that are privileged, and this information is just that."

"Your break-up with Arnold? I don't think so," Gerald replied, crossing his arms in an annoyed manner.

. . .

 _Once Eilis has gotten settled with Paulo later that evening, Olga and I got all dolled up and headed into Downtown L.A. to go to that bistro she suggested, plus a new chick flick about girls traipsing around town wanting to be original in finding themselves. I told Olga that as long as if it was written by a halfway intelligent woman, and if Amy Schumer or Melissa McCarthy weren't in it, then I would of course be game to see it. Olga just smiled and said that something that small could easily be arranged._

 _The bistro was called Enliven Éclair, although they served other things besides desserts, but specialized in French cuisine. We were shown in to a dining room that boasted smooth mahogany beams, with burnt cream-colored walls between them. There was a white marble fireplace against the wall, which was lit for dinner, and thankfully did not make the dining room overtly warm. Above the white marble fireplace was an oil painting by John William Waterhouse, with the small plaque at the base declaring it Miranda—The Tempest. The tables were various round sizes, and had matching napkins, with silverware and various crystal-cut bud vases in the middle, with single roses of various colors, all entwined with baby's breath._

 _We were each handed a black leather menu, with the name of the restaurant stamped in gold upon its cover. Each section was short and to the point, their titles in a curled font and very important-looking. Only a handful of dishes were available beneath the curled fonts, but the_ _maître d_ _' assured us that our server would come by and inform us of the specials that evening. As I stared at the letters of the various French dishes before me—which were listed in French and then explained to the reader in English—and I did my best to understand this advanced form of English as I took in the words upon the expensive parchment._

" _Helga?" Olga said gently._

" _Yes?" I asked, lowering my menu too quickly and nearly collapsing my glass of water, which the new server quickly saved. "I'm so sorry," I said quickly, feeling my forehead pucker in embarrassment._

" _Happens all the time," he said, shooting me a smile. "I was just wondering what you and your sister would like to drink."_

" _Merlot, please," Olga said quietly. "Thank you."_

" _Of course, ma'am," he said, turning back to me. "And for you, miss?"_

 _I quickly go to the non-alcoholic section for the beverages. "Sparkling cider, please," I reply. "Thank you."_

" _Very good, miss," he said with a smile. "I shall return shortly with those and to take your orders," he said before slipping off towards the kitchens._

" _Feeling all right?" Olga asked. "You barely said a word in the car on the way over here..."_

" _I talked," I said, my voice squeaking ever so slightly._

 _Olga smiled. "You said 'Yes' and 'No' and there may have been an 'Oh, really?' once or twice," she said. "Come on. What's eating you? I thought you were really excited about this trip. I know I was..."_

 _I sighed. "It's not that. It's just..."_

" _What?"_

" _This year was really hard," I reply. "Arnold leaving for New York and leaving me to tackle high school all on my own..."_

" _But you weren't all alone," she put in. "You had Gerald and Phoebe—"_

 _I sighed. "Gerald successfully ruined my reputation for the better part of the year, until Harold showed up to prank the boys at Hillwood Preparatory on behalf of Hillwood High," I reply._

" _And why would Harold do something like that?"_

" _Rhonda made him," I reply offhandedly. "Ever since last summer, they've been a firm item, which means he has to do whatever she says."_

 _Olga lowers her eyes. "Sounds a lot like my marriage," she replies, lowering her eyes to a massive, fading bruise, which was halfway covered by her wrap. "I know the feeling all too well..."_

 _I gasp. "Olga!" I hissed, feeling sick all over. "Please, don't... Is that something he did to you? When you told him you were taking the job out here?"_

 _She sighed. "Yes. Of course, I probably should have waited for a better time to say anything about it."_

 _I blinked. "Excuse me?" I say in a whisper as the waiter comes with our drinks and places them on the table. We order a steak and chicken respectively before he makes himself scarce._

 _Olga bites her lip. "Well, one of the other partners—a new guy—stole this big account from him and he was just devastated. So, when he got home, he started in on the Jack Daniels and never put the glass down..."_

" _Olga..."_

" _No, it was my fault," she said, lowering her eyes. "I should have waited for a time where he wasn't drunk and depressed. He apologized the next morning, though," she said._

" _As if that makes it okay," I told her. "It doesn't."_

 _She sighed. "I don't know..."_

" _Did he... Did he give you a present?"_

 _Olga's eyes snap to mine. "What?"_

" _The day after...that happened," I reply, nodding to the bruise. "Did Harrison give you a present to...properly apologize?" I ask, feeling as if I am chewing on glass as I force myself to say the words._

" _Yes," Olga admitted._

" _What did he give you?"_

" _A diamond necklace and earrings," she replied. "They matched my wedding ring, and I guess he was saving them for a special occasion. They were his great-grandmother's," she told me quietly._

 _I shake my head, wanting to slam my fist into the table. "Olga, just tell me one thing... Was this the first time?"_

" _No," she replied. "The only time he didn't hit me was when we were first dating, and it started once we got engaged," she replied. "And then it stopped only when I was pregnant—I guess he was kind enough to consider not to hurt the babies," she said bitterly._

" _Oh, Olga," I said, rubbing my temples. "Why didn't you say anything? Or try to get out of there sooner?"_

 _She raised her eyes to mine. "Because I was in love with him," she said simply, and spread her hands. "Couldn't help it. Just like with you and Arnold."_

 _I shake my head. "I think the situations are different—"_

" _Not entirely," she replied. "Our loves are both in New York, and they both hurt us before we left them," she said softly._

 _I shrug. "You got me there," I say, tracing patterns in the cool condensation of my water glass._

" _Do you ever speak with him?" she asked._

 _I blinked. "What?"_

" _Do you ever speak with him? With Arnold?"_

 _I sighed, lowering my eyes. "Once."_

" _Just once? Since he left?"_

" _Yes."_

" _Why?"_

" _Because Dr. Bliss died," I reply. "I just needed to hear his voice, just for a moment. I hoped that he wouldn't answer," I tell her quietly. "I hoped that I could just get to the voicemail, listen to his voice and hang up, then pretend that I was leaving him the message. I just wanted to get the words out..."_

" _But?"_

" _But when he picked up, I couldn't help myself," I tell her honestly. "I just wanted to tell him that I'd made a huge mistake and that I still loved him and that I wanted him back..."_

" _You couldn't say all that, could you?" Olga asked._

 _I shook my head. "No," I reply. "No, I couldn't..."_

 _She nodded. "Did he ever say it? That he loved you?"_

 _I lower my eyes. "Once. Just once..."_

. . .

I blink. "Excuse me? But how is any of this your business?" I say, forcing myself to keep my voice down. "It was _our_ relationship—mine and Arnold's, not yours, mine, and Arnold's. You had nothing to do with it!"

"It's my business because Arnold told me about it," Gerald replied.

I slump back then against the upholstered cushions of the booth, attempting to fathom why Arnold would do something like that. "He what?" I whispered, feeling utterly betrayed that Arnold would do such a thing.

"You don't believe me?" Gerald asked, whipping out his cell phone like a reporter or a detective in the movies and accessing his voicemail panel.

"Gerald—" I begin.

Ignoring me, Gerald presses a button and my heart drops as soon as I hear the voice emitting from the speaker. I grip the table before me, shaking, as the words that I used to hear every single day enter my ears for the first time in weeks, as the last I hard them was when I told him of Dr. Bliss's death, and before that had been the airport where we had... The heartbreak behind his voice positively broke me, and I could not even begin to fathom why I was feeling this way...

"Gerald... Hey, man, it's me. Man, New York is such a big trip to make. Can't believe I spent my fifteenth birthday myself. Listen, about that information I gave you about me and Helga ending things... I really don't think you should leak it anonymously to the papers. I know we thought it would hurt her, but this whole thing—it hurt both of us. And the separation we have from one another, I know it wasn't meant to happen this way. And the long and the short of it is, Gerald, I was going to tell her something that day at the airport—something I should have said a long time ago but didn't, for some stupid notion of pride, and I know I should have but I didn't—"

"No," I whispered, my eyes filling with tears.

"—but Helga didn't want me to say it then, though, Gerald, so maybe that means something. I don't know—we're teenagers, so maybe none of it is supposed to make sense in the grand scheme of things. What I can't understand is the fact that this whole big competition would pick me at all, when they had Helga's name in their stack of applicants. Sure, I said all the right things, and Helga said all the wrong things, but that's how we get through life—by saying the wrong things and risking everything that we have to give. I love her, Gerald," Arnold said, and I felt the tears escaping my eyes. "I love her, and people who love each other do not seek to hurt each other deliberately. Maybe this is how it was always supposed to be—me going to New York and Helga going to Hillwood Academy. Maybe we just weren't ready for all of this; maybe it was just too much too soon..."

"Stop," I whisper. "Please... Turn it off, Gerald."

"...and Helga, if you ever listen to this, please know that I love you, and that I wanted to stop all this in its tracks. If it's too late, then I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry, but if it's already been set in motion, or is already out there, please understand that my mindset was in a torment of emotions and I just could not help myself..."

Gerald cuts the call to the voicemail, and I look up then, seeing Phoebe standing there, a look of horror on her face. "Babe," Gerald said, "it was just something I had to do..."

"Gerald, how could you?!" she cried out.

"Don't," I said, raising my hand as Gerald moved to say something. "Now I'm going to tell you something—as my friends, _not_ as a reporter," I said, turning my gaze onto Gerald, and forcing my voice not to shake. I sighed, knowing that this secret could not stay cooped up forever. "I just need your word, Gerald, that you don't run with this information."

"Yeah, but—" Gerald tried.

"Gerald!" Phoebe said, her voice firm. "If you want this relationship to work, you will give Helga your word," she said, and, as I turned to look at her, I saw that there were tears in her eyes as well.

Gerald sighed. "All right," he replied.

"Good," I said, placing my hands upon the table. "Arnold's suspicions were correct—he wasn't the first choice for the competition in New York. It was me," I said quietly, the words surrendering the weight upon my shoulders.

"It was you?" Gerald asked, shocked.

"But Helga, if they picked you, then why are you here?" Phoebe whispered, shock radiating through her voice.

"Because I gave it up," I reply, not meeting their eyes. "It was Arnold's dream, not mine, to study in New York. I couldn't take that away from him," I whisper. "So, when I had mono, I wrote to the judges and told them to give the grand prize—well, only prize, really—to Arnold, because he was the deserving one... Do you remember that essay that Mr. Simmons had us write, about a person we admired, and that it could be anonymous?"

Phoebe nodded. "Yes."

Gerald sighed. "Every day."

I shut my eyes. "I wrote mine about Arnold," I tell them. "So I essentially just took the good parts of my essay and turned them into a persuasive letter, telling the judges to pick good old Football Head, because he was the one who deserved to win it in the first place."

"Helga?" Gerald asked.

I opened my eyes and turned to look at him. "What?"

"That's the ultimate sacrifice right there," he said quietly, shaking his head. "Wow, I mean... I can't believe I let my loyalty to Arnold cloud my judgement as you. I've ruined your reputation," he said, almost as if he couldn't believe it himself. "If only you would let me print a retraction—then your repute could be saved, and then everyone would leave you alone—"

"No," I say firmly, and he looks shocked.

"Helga," Phoebe said gently, stepping forward. "You know as well as I do that, in high school, your reputation is everything."

"Not to me," I reply, shaking my head. "Not to me. My everything got on a plane to New York. I let my everything fly away."


	2. What's Love Got to Do with It?

Chapter Twelve: What's Love Got to Do with It?

"Helga, you can't beat yourself up about it," Gerald said quietly as Phoebe slipped back into the booth, albeit at my other side so as she wouldn't have to sit next to him again. "Arnold didn't know the circumstances, and if he did, I'm sure he wouldn't have left..."

"Yeah, right," I mutter bitterly. "He wouldn't have left because he wasn't their first choice..."

"Helga, you can't think that way," Phoebe said gently, putting an arm around my shoulders; I fight to remain still—it was a comforting gesture, sure, but I didn't want their pity. "Arnold isn't that type of person, and you know it. You know all about Arnold—"

"Apparently, that's not true!" I cry out then, pulling away from Phoebe's arm. "I mean, no guy I was ever with would betray me like that—"

"Helga, are you playing the victim?" Gerald asked.

"No," I reply, even though I was painting myself pretty far into the victim corner as it was. "No, of course not."

Gerald sighed, knowing that there was no easy way out of this. "Look, if you just let me print a redeeming article about you—"

"Absolutely not," I reply, my eyes glued to the surface of the table. "You gave me your word, Gerald."

He nods. "I know—I understand, Helga. I mean, come on, even I know that there's a lot riding on this. But still—it could clear your name. And high school is brutal as it is..."

I scoff then. "Isn't it supposed to be?"

"What?" Phoebe asked.

I turn and look at her. "Come on, Phoebe. You know as well as I do that none of this was supposed to be easy."

"Well, of course not," she said quietly. "After all, we attend private school, and Hillwood Academy and Hillwood Preparatory utilize its students' high GPA's for the difficult curriculum—"

"I'm not talking about the curriculum," I cut across her then, my voice fringed with impatience. "I'm talking about the experience. What teenager can honestly say they had an easy time of it?"

"Jocks and cheerleaders," Gerald puts in quietly.

I shrug, turning to look at him. "Even you know that they could be secretly hating themselves," I tell him. "Besides, they frequently only integrate among themselves because they feel it's expected of them. Who's to say they couldn't be best friends with a nerd or a drama geek?"

"You're painting a pretty bleak picture of high school life, Helga," Phoebe puts in then, softly.

I lower my eyes again, to my lap, where my fingers are wrapped around one another due to my angst. "What life doesn't have bleakness touching it in some way?" I whisper.

. . .

" _Who only says it once?" Olga demands, her eyes roving over my downcast face in The Enliven Éclair, trying to solve the mystery. "Which boyfriend in their right mind, who's been with their significant other for three years only says, 'I love you' one time?!"_

 _I sigh. "Keep your voice down, Olga," I reply. "It's not like it really matters at this point, you know..."_

" _Of course it matters!" she says, exasperation in her voice. "Harrison may have beaten me to a bloody pulp whenever something went badly on the job, but at least he said it to me—"_

 _I raise my eyes to hers. "That wasn't love."_

" _Helga?"_

" _That rat bastard beat you, Olga—he_ beat _you," I say through my teeth, really hammering the point home. "What man claims to love a woman one moment and then wounds everything in his wake the next?" I shake my head, finally forcing myself to exhale my frustration. "He's a criminal, Olga, and he belongs in a jail cell with his name on it..."_

 _Olga straightens herself out then, picking up her glass of wine and swirling it momentarily in her glass. "I can't press charges," she says softly before she lifts it to her lips and drinks._

 _I let out a half-gasp, half-scoff noise then. "I'm sorry. What?"_

 _Olga sighs. "Harrison and I didn't have a prenup, but we did have...a contract of sorts," she tells me._

" _What is this? Fifty Shades of Portman?!" I demand, my voice riddled with disgust and anger._

 _Olga turns white as the tablecloth and hastily returns her wine glass to it. "No, it wasn't anything like that."_

" _Then what was it like?" I demand, my voice hushed._

" _If our marriage lasted less than five years, due to mistreatment or adultery, then I would get three hundred thousand dollars to live on, plus custody of any of our daughters," she replied._

 _I shake my head. "I don't understand."_

 _Olga covered her mouth. "The conditions stipulated that I wasn't allowed to reveal any of the information," she says, her words seeping through her parted fingers. "I shouldn't even be telling you any of this..."_

" _Tell me," I whispered._

 _Olga shuddered, the tears escaping her eyes resembling finely cut diamonds. "I once caught Harrison in the nursery, blackout drunk..."_

 _I found myself gripping the edges of the table. "Olga," I whispered, my voice shaking, "what are you telling me?"_

" _He was leaning over Eilis's crib," she whispered, her voice shaking and choked as she did her best to hold back her sobs._

" _Olga..." I whispered._

" _He said that if I didn't give him what he wanted—what I was required to give him as his wife—then he would take what he needed from...Eilis..."_

" _She's a baby!" I hissed in disgust, rage bubbling just beneath the surface. "What the hell was he thinking?!"_

" _I wanted to kill him," Olga whispered. "But Harrison got so paranoid that people were watching us that he hid spy cams all over the house..."_

" _Why didn't you go to the spy cam room then?" I whisper. "Why didn't you just go to the spy cam room and delete footage of you killing him and then just make up a story about a robbery gone wrong?"_

" _Because his family wouldn't have believed me, and they would've found a way to dig up the footage eventually," Olga replied. "And besides, the servants and Harrison only knew where the spy cam rooms were, and they were under strict orders not to tell me..."_

" _What did you do?" I whispered then, my fingers knotting around themselves again as anxiety got the better of me. "When Harrison threatened to do god knows what to Eilis, what did you do?"_

" _I couldn't let him do it," she whispered. "I told him to come to bed... I told him I would let him do whatever he wanted to me. As long as he didn't touch Eilis, I knew things would work out..."_

" _You let him...?" I say, unable to say the word._

 _Olga nods. "Yes."_

" _Why?" I whispered._

 _Olga raised her eyes to mine, a sad smile upon her face as her tears continued to fall upon her cheeks. "When you're a mother, you'll do anything to protect your children," she replied simply. "I couldn't let him hurt Eilis... I just hope she doesn't remember any of what could have happened, or what did..."_

" _Did Harrison ever—?"_

" _No," Olga replied. "No, I always got there in time to make sure he did whatever it was he wanted to her, to me."_

" _You took the abuse to protect Eilis," I whispered. "But wait... Wouldn't Harrison ever hurt Osias?"_

 _Olga shakes her head. "No. He's never too blackout not to ascertain what Osias is —a son. He would never hurt his son."_

 _I nodded, although I was not entirely sure Olga really knew her soon-to-be ex-husband at all._

. . .

Christmas break was an altogether lonely experience; I'd not been so lonely since the Christmas of my fifth-grade year, back at P.S. 118. The notion that I'd had several good Christmases in a row was enough to sustain me until halfway through vacation, when the day arrived and I was given an individual packet of crackers and a canister of squeeze cheese. I thanked my parents and left the house, walking along the snow falling streets.

Passing by the other homes around me, the streets and sidewalks slick with ice and cluttered with snow around their edges, I looked into the windows of the homes. I saw a massive Christmas tree in all the front rooms, with various parents and children in new pairs of flannel pajamas. The parents sit upon their couches, drinking their morning coffee, while the children kneel upon the floor, tearing into their presents. There is frequently a fire roaring in the fireplace, its embers would snap and pop in celebration, almost as if cementing the family tradition in warmth and comfort.

The thought that I am alone again affects me greatly as I continue down the sidewalk and onwards. I don't know where I'm going; all I do know is that I have to put as much space between myself and my own house as possible. It was not a home, I saw that now; I was only fourteen-years-old, and never had I ever had a home of my own. Continuing through town, hands stuffed into my pockets and feet wriggling inside my boots, I found I was physically warm but emotionally, I was cold, very cold.

I found I came to an automatic stop before the boarding house, and forced my eyes not to fill with icy tears at the notion of what I had lost. I remembered the countless birthdays and holidays I had spent underneath that roof. And then I barely heard the door open, and my heart leapt momentarily, hoping beyond hope that Arnold had been the one to open it. I felt my face fall when I saw that Mrs. Shortman stood there and, without any form of hesitation, descended the stairs and made her way towards me. When she finally stood before me, wrapped in an oversized coat that could have been her husbands', she gave me a small smile and pulled me into her arms quickly.

"What are you doing out here by yourself?" she asked me, not letting me go, and I felt warmth flowing through me once more.

"Long story," I managed to get out, and it was then that I realized that my teeth were chattering.

Mrs. Shortman pulled back then, her eyes filled with concern. "Come in," she said and pulled me up the stairs. Pulling me inside, she immediately took off my coat and hat, hanging my scarf up in one pull and bringing me automatically into the common room. She proclaimed with joy to the scattered company that I was there, and Mr. Shortman stepped forward and embraced me, before leading me to a chair beside the fireplace.

"Sit down," he said gently, and I sat. "It's good that you're here—we were just about to call you."

"Me?" I asked. "Why?"

"Even though you're not seeing Arnold anymore, it certainly doesn't change anything between us," Mrs. Shortman said with a smile. "You helped save our lives, Helga, and you're the love of our son's life."

I shake my head. "Not after I ended things the way I did..."

"Yes, we saw the papers," Mr. Shortman said. "Believe me, I had it out with Arnold on the phone as soon as I did."

I sigh. "I'm sorry... So sorry, for how I ended things with him. It shouldn't have happened that way, I know that..."

"It's none of our business," Mrs. Shortman said gently. "I probably would have done something similar. Besides, you're both so young—a long-distance relationship isn't something you needed."

I nodded. "Well, still... I'm sorry the information got out..."

"It never should have been made public," Mr. Shortman declared. "After yelling at Arnold for a good twenty minutes on the phone, he admitted that the report had been written by Gerald, and it was too late to call it back, although he claims that he did try to do so..."

I sigh, leaning back against the chair. "He did," I affirm.

"What?" Mrs. Shortman asked.

I nodded. "Yeah, he did. Gerald saved the voicemail—I guess he wanted to confront me on it later for a reply article."

"Are you going to do it?" Mr. Shortman asked.

I shake my head. "No. Gossip columns don't belong in credible newspapers anyway, although after the Preparatory Periodical printed one, I think it's safe to say that they're not a credible newspaper."

"Here-here," Mrs. Shortman said with a chuckle.

"That's not even the worst thing about it," I say quietly.

"What could be worse than having your explicit dirty laundry written about for all to see?" Mr. Shortman asked.

"The voicemail," I reply.

"What was so bad about the voicemail?" Mrs. Shortman asked.

I locked eyes with the two of them. "Arnold told me he loved me in the voicemail, and he didn't say it before then," I reply.

. . .

" _What are you thinking?" Olga asked._

 _I raised my eyes to hers. "What do you think?"_

" _I wouldn't have asked you if I already knew."_

You got me there, _I thought to myself. "Nothing, just the last Christmas I had in Hillwood," I say softly, chuckling darkly. "You know what Mom and Dad gave me last year?"_

" _No."_

" _An individual packet of crackers and squeeze cheese," I reply. "I know it's the thought that counts, but here it was so obvious that there was virtually no thought put into me whatsoever."_

" _What did you get them?" she asked._

" _I got Mom a necklace and I got Dad one of those desk trinkets that everyone goes nuts over," I reply, shrugging. "Nothing special."_

" _They sound special."_

 _I sigh. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess they were pretty special."_

" _That can't be all you're thinking."_

 _I nod. "You'd be right."_

" _Tell me."_

 _I'd been staying with Olga for almost two months, and sunny California had rejuvenated me to the point where I was as close to happy as I could be. I turned to look at my sister, who was no longer physically riddled with bruises, although her tan certainly helped. Looking up at the palm trees in the distance, as well as all around us, I knew that, conceivably, I could get used to the atmosphere of this new and exciting place._

 _I leaned forward upon my lawn chair, bringing my knees to my chest and clasping my hands around them. "Lots of things," I admitted._

" _You can tell me, you know."_

 _I nodded. "I know."_

" _Do you want to tell me?"_

 _I sighed. "Yes and no."_

" _You're afraid to hurt me, aren't you?" she asked._

 _I lowered my eyes, which were invisible, due to the sunglasses I wore. "A little bit," I said quietly._

" _Tell me. I can take it."_

" _I'm afraid for Osias," I replied._

 _She nodded. "So am I."_

" _Then why didn't you attempt to take them both?" I ask her. "I mean, you could have declined the money in exchange..."_

" _Don't you think I tried to do that?" Olga asks me quietly. "I tried everything I could think of to get Osias and Eilis out here with me. It didn't do any good, Helga, any of it."_

" _Would he hit you?" I ask._

 _Olga leaned back in her chair. "Among other things."_

 _I shake my head. "And he's from this big, impressive, old money family so he pretty much has everyone in his pocket, right?"_

 _Olga nodded. "Pretty much."_

" _And lawyers?" I ask._

 _Olga doesn't move. "Them, too," she replies._

 _I raise my eyes skyward, a plane flying overhead, leaving me feeling more and more anxious for the future. "It's helpless, then, isn't it?"_

" _At this point?" Olga asks._

" _At this point," I reply._

" _Completely," she replies._

" _And it's not like you can just take him," I say, gritting my teeth. "You get twenty-five to life in New York for kidnapping, even if it's your own kid."_

" _Did you look that up?"_

 _I shrug. "I may have."_

 _She nods. "I did, too. I even managed to find a third-party lawyer anonymously and she said that I could take Osias_ and _Eilis, but that I couldn't go to California and take my job."_

" _What did she say?"_

" _She said I would have to take them somewhere that the United States can't extradite from, like Russia, and there's no way I'd take my kids there," she said in a disgusted tone._

" _So, you're stuck?" I ask her._

 _She nods. "For now."_

 _I knock my head back into the lawn chair in frustration. "Even if you go a new identity and could start over—clean slate, no questions asked—would you do it? I mean, if you could have Osias and Eilis with you..."_

 _Olga bit her lip. "I don't know, Helga. And that's an honest answer." She raised her eyes to mine, lowering her sunglasses. "I can't just drop everything now—I have a good job, a home of my own, and my daughter is safe."_

" _But at what cost, if your son is not?"_

 _Olga brings her sunglasses back up. "The cost to live is everything, Helga. I'm not ready to die yet."_

. . .

After opening my new, personalized notebook from Mr. and Mrs. Shortman, and thanking them—letting them know I would be by at the end of the week to give them their own gifts—I was stopped before leaving. They told me that I had one more gift upstairs, and I felt a lump rising in my throat. I knew instinctively where to go, without Arnold's parents telling me, and trudged up the staircase, my feet suddenly very heavy.

Opening the door to Arnold's bedroom, it squeaked ever so slightly as I shut it behind me. I walked over to his dresser, opening one of the drawers, and found his hat from the fourth grade, tucked away among his socks. Taking it out didn't take much effort, and the notion that it still smelled of his perfect hair sent shivers down my spine. Dashing the tears from my eyes, I remembered being told that my other gift was in the closet, and I turned to open the doors, seeing a massive cardboard box upon the closet floor. Two envelopes lay upon it; the first said, "Do Not Open Until 12/25/20", while the second said, "Do Not Open Until 03/23/24", which was my eighteenth birthday. The second date was written several times upon the cardboard box at my feet, and I felt my heart skip a beat when I looked at the letters—it was Arnold's handwriting.

Picking up the first envelope, the one that stated to open it on Christmas Day of this year, I immediately opened it effortlessly. I hesitated before removing the paper from it—other than the monotoned words I'd spoken to Arnold a month ago, and our breakup at the airport in August, I knew that once this new form of correspondence ended, it would be my job to reply. With shaking hands, I removed the folded-up piece of paper from the envelope, scanning the words.

 _Dear Helga,_

 _First and foremost, I need to apologize to you for what I did—contacting Gerald and giving him the information about our breakup. Breakups are meant to be private affairs, and I pretty much blew that code of honor in that respect. I'll never forgive myself for doing that to you, nor do I expect you to forgive me. I could say that Gerald has the persuasiveness of a journalist—and he does, don't get me wrong—and that he said you deserved it. Since he is my best friend, in the heat of the moment, I was inclined to believe him._

 _I was angry and hurt at the way we left things in August, when I was about to get on the plane to New York. I guess all I wanted in that moment was for you to be supportive and happy for me—I thought, after all my hard work of getting into the competition, that's the least you could do. I guess I didn't understand how much it was going to hurt you—my leaving. All I saw was my dream in front of me, and I wasn't thinking about anything else. That was wrong of me as well._

 _I'm not asking or begging your forgiveness here, Helga; would I like it, sure. Do I expect it? No. No boyfriend should treat their girlfriend the way I treated you the day I was due to leave. It was wrong of me to automatically assume that you would be happy for me that my dream was coming true. It pains me to say it, but I was glad when I got word that I won the competition. I mean, what kid wouldn't be glad to get such a prize? I guess, in so doing, I hurt what we had, and while I don't know if we can get it back, I'm willing to try._

 _As for the box you're inevitably looking at, as well as the envelope on top of it, I do expect you not to open them until the instructed date. Yes, I know that waiting for that date will prove to be agonizing, but I hope you will do me this last favor and wait. Promise me that at least, Helga. I know I'm the last person to expect any favors my way, after everything, but I hope that you can do this for me._

 _Thanks for reading._

 _Your friend,_

 _Arnold Shortman_

I crumpled up that letter.

I crumpled up that letter like there was no tomorrow.

I threw it into the wastepaper basket and felt the sobs coming up from my throat before I could stop them. I offhandedly remembered Arnold's address in New York, and wrote it on every surface imaginable of that box, opening it quickly and shoving the envelope inside without checking its contents. I grabbed a piece of paper from his desk, my vision blinded by tears, and quickly scrawled, _I don't want anything from you, Football Head_ , before shoving that into the box as well, before heaving it up onto his bed.

I left his room and slammed the door behind me, I could feel the eyes of Arnold's parents upon me as I stood there in the hallway, gripping the notebook. "Nothing upstairs is for me," I said quickly to them both. "I left what you thought was for me on the bed," I manage to get out before making a grab my hat, coat, and scarf before fleeing the boarding house as fast as I could.

. . .

" _Are you still mad at him for leaving?" Olga asks me as we make the drive back to the Los Angeles International Airport._

 _I sigh. "I guess...a little..."_

 _She nods. "And the letter he gave you for Christmas?"_

 _I shrug. "It was a letter."_

" _It hurt you, didn't it?"_

 _I lean back against my seat then, pulling down my sunglasses over my eyes as we hit a particularly sunny spot. "Yes," I reply._

 _Olga sighed. "You can't hold it against him forever."_

 _I nod. "I know. I don't plan to."_

" _Then stop punishing him, and yourself."_

 _I shake my head. "I don't know what you're talking about."_

" _Do you still love him?" she asks._

 _I shut my eyes. "I never stopped," I reply._

" _Well, then maybe you could do something about that," Olga says gently as we get closer and closer to the freeway exit._

" _What do you mean?" I ask her._

 _My older sister turns briefly to smile at me as we approach the exit. "I don't know, Helga. Maybe you could write him a letter."_

" _Write_ him _a letter?!" I demand. "Are you kidding me?!"_

" _Well, he wrote_ you _a letter," Olga said, unaffected by my sudden outburst. "I mean, no harm in replying."_

" _Of course there's harm in it," I reply. "He could think I'm leading him on as revenge for leaving me."_

" _He went to go get an education that will pertain to his dream job," Olga said simply. "He didn't leave you, he just moved away."_

" _Same difference," I reply, crossing my arms._

" _Not really," Olga tells me. "Sure, he wanted to leave to achieve his dreams, but I don't think he wanted to leave you, too."_

" _It's not like he could've brought me with him," I mutter. "You think I didn't consider that when they picked me for it first?"_

 _Olga immediately lets out a gasp and pulls the car over. Thankfully we are off the freeway by this time, and close to an area that is not used as a bus stop so as we can momentarily park legally. "What did you say?"_

 _I roll my eyes, not wanting to get into this discussion again; I hated re-explaining myself. "Doesn't matter."_

" _Of course it does," Olga replies, attempting to keep her temper with me. "What did you just say, Helga?"_

 _I continue staring dead ahead. "Do you really want to know?"_

" _I really want to know."_

" _Okay," I reply, turning to look at her and removing my sunglasses. "The competition picked me first but I decided against going."_

" _When did they pick you?" she asks._

" _I found out when I had mono," I reply._

" _Why didn't you say anything?!" she cries out. "They wanted_ you _?!"_

 _I sighed. "Yes. Yes, they picked me." I took out my phone and went to the folder I'd created on my email, where I'd saved my correspondence with the judges. "Read it and weep."_

 _Olga takes my phone then and scans the words of the judges, praising my honest and open approach to the entire thing and that they believed I would be a perfect candidate for the program. "Wait," she says, handing it back to me, "if they picked you, why aren't you in New York?"_

" _I already told you—I turned it down," I reply, taking my phone back and putting it into my purse._

" _Seems like a pretty big coincidence that they picked Arnold after you turned it down," she says._

 _I bite at my lips, annoyed. "That's because I told them to pick Arnold instead of me," I reply._

" _Why would you do something like that, Helga? You could have gotten out of Hillwood and made a good life for yourself—"_

 _I shake my head. "I didn't want to do it."_

" _Why not?"_

" _Because I..." I feel my eyes fill with tears then as I consider the potential outcome of me going to New York in Arnold's stead, and know immediately what my greatest fear was. "Because I was afraid," I whisper, not looking at my older sister —I couldn't, not now._

" _Afraid? Of what?" she asks._

 _I sigh then, the sobs not going away. "I was afraid that Arnold would go to New York and love it and never want to come back..."_

" _That's not all of it, is it, Helga?" Olga says quietly._

 _I shake my head then. "No... No, that's not all of it..."_

" _What's is, then?" she wants to know. "What's the full story?"_

" _The full story is that I was afraid that Arnold would meet and fall in love with someone else," I reply. "Someone more suited to his needs... Someone soft and pretty and girly..."_

" _You sound like you're describing Lila Sawyer," Olga tells me._

 _I shake my head. "Maybe I am. She was Arnold's first crush, and I guess I was afraid that maybe someone like her would be in New York and that Arnold would use the excuse of the long-distance thing to find another girlfriend..."_

" _But you broke up with Arnold," Olga stipulated._

 _I nodded. "I know."_

" _But you didn't want to?"_

 _I shake my head. "Not in a million years."_

" _Then, why did you do it?" she asks._

 _I scoff then. "Hell if I know..."_

" _You know," Olga says, squeezing my arm. "Say it."_

 _I let out a sob then, turning to her and throwing myself into her arms—all I wanted, in that moment, was a hug. "I ended it myself because I thought it would hurt more if he ended it," I sob into her shoulder. "I just thought if I did it on my own terms that I wouldn't feel any pain, but I was wrong. It hurts—it hurts more than anything in the world," I cry out._

 _Olga's arms are tight around me then, and, at last, I feel safe. "I know, Helga, I know," she says quietly to me. "It always hurts..."_

" _I did it for him," I whisper then, the last of the truth finally escaping my lips. "I did it for him..."_

" _What?" Olga asks, releasing me and pushing me back from her to catch my eye as I force myself to speak. "What do you mean?"_

" _I thought he would want to date in New York, and not be stuck with some hometown honey who called the shots several states away," I say as she wipes the tears from my eyes. "I thought that if Arnold was single, he would finally feel fulfilled..."_

 _Olga smiles at me. "Clearly, he wasn't, given that he wrote to you over Christmas," she tells me gently._

 _I shake my head. "What am I gonna do?" I whispered._

" _Doesn't hurt to tell the truth," she replies._

 _I shudder then. "But I'm not ready to tell him," I say, recalling when I first told Dr. Bliss about my love for Arnold._

" _You don't have to tell him now," Olga replied, and my eyes lock themselves onto hers. "You can do it when you're ready."_

 _I sigh, checking my watch then and pulling away from her. "I don't want to miss my plane..."_

" _Oh. Right. Yeah," she says, sticking her key into the ignition and pulling away from our makeshift parking spot._

" _Hey, Olga?" I say as we continue towards the airport._

" _Yeah?" she asks._

" _Thanks," I say softly._

" _Anytime, baby sister," she replies gently._

 _I said goodbye to Olga at the airport and slept for most of the plane trip back to Hillwood, where my father surprised me with a ride home. He spent the entirety of the drive wanting to know all about Olga, so I knew then why he picked me up in the first place. I made small talk about it until we arrived home, where I went straight to my bedroom to unpack, shower, and throw my clothes into the to-do laundry pile._

 _After my shower, I approached my desk then, lowering myself into the chair and picking up a piece of paper from the stack, as well as a pen. Thinking for a moment, I began to write..._

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _Ever since you moved away for high school, all I can think about is that you're going after your dreams. Miles and Stella bring me comfort, and we often meet up for lunch, dinner, or for a walk to pass the time. I know that you did what was right, and even though things ended between us the way they did, I am pleased that you still want to keep in touch..._

 _I stopped writing then, staring down at the piece of paper. I knew it was the right thing to do, yet in that moment, it did not feel right to me. Opening the top drawer of my desk, I slipped the one paragraph letter into it, before I found myself smiling down at it. Nodding to myself, I shut the drawer then, patting it as I did so._

" _Not time yet," I said quietly, "yet it will come soon enough."_


	3. The First Letter

Chapter Thirteen: The First Letter

 _Wake me up when September ends_ , was a saying I'd not said since the fourth grade, back before Arnold knew anything about the depth of my feelings for him. Before I disguised myself as Deep Voice, before our first big kiss, before San Lorenzo, before our big kiss in San Lorenzo—before all of it, really. Now that sophomore year was officially on the horizon, and that Phoebe's, Gerald's, and my transcripts had been seen by us in the final weeks of August, all systems were a-go. Since we'd gotten nothing below a C-average—in Gerald's case, because he'd refused to tame down his hair for gym class—we were officially sophomores.

Gerald and Phoebe's relationship, to say the least, had been on the rocks since before the Christmas holidays of freshman year. Phoebe was torn, about whether to be on the side of her boyfriend or best friend. Since I'd forgiven Gerald for his momentary thoughtlessness, Phoebe remained torn, almost as if she needed my permission to wholly forgive Gerald. With Gerald driving up to pick us up from Phoebe's house—after receiving a car for his sixteenth birthday the month before —and as Phoebe rode shotgun, she felt all the more timid as the situation presented itself to her. Not only would she be potentially throwing away all their years as a couple, but she would also be breaking up with a guy with a _car_.

Not many sixteen-year-old sophomores had cars—that was typically reserved for a spoiled junior or a righteous senior—and Gerald was truly one of a kind. As I sat in the center seat of the back, only contributing to the small talk when asked a direct question, I began to consider my position as a third wheel. Sure, Gerald didn't have to pick me up for school in the mornings, or drive me back to Phoebe's doorstep in the afternoons—he only did so at Phoebe's insistence, and she only insisted because she wanted to be alone with him as little as possible. Perhaps I'd pull it back a bit—Phoebe _needed_ to talk to him.

After parking in his assigned spot on the Hillwood Preparatory grounds, I made up an excuse about a paper I needed to print out. Despite Phoebe's quick thinking and offering to accompany me, I told her to stay with Gerald. In reality, there was no paper to print out—we were only on day three of classes. With the first day spent playing various name games and going over the repetitive syllabi, I needed a break from the Gerald/Phoebe drama. There was only a specific amount of lecture time that I could take—we'd already moved on from "Gerald's Feelings of Loyalty to Arnold Over Helga", and had moved on to "The Betrayal Felt by Helga and Myself at Your Actions". It was enough now.

Leaving Gerald and Phoebe to discuss their predicaments of months' past in the parking lot, I journeyed across campus and walked in through the double doors of Hillwood Academy. The navigation of the school and campus itself had been taken care of during the first week of freshman year, so as a seasoned sophomore, I did not have to overtly interact with anyone, let alone ask for directions. I made my way through the academic and athletic hallways, followed by the arts corridor, and managed to find the library in an efficient manner.

Stepping inside, my body language changed almost immediately to accommodate the silent surroundings as I walked towards a vacant desktop computer. One thing I enjoyed about Hillwood Academy was that internet privileges weren't as restricted as they had been at P.S. 118. Adult websites, of course, were still out of the question for access and were blocked—I knew such a fact would disappoint Harold greatly—but you were able to check your email and social media. Usually my emails consisted of spam, as the whole third-party sharing sites frequently got my email onto their radar, but I learned the whole blocking specific threatening addresses technique and strived to make it all work.

Logging into the system with my password and username, once the homepage of the computer made itself known, it automatically directed me to the student network section of the school website, however, I quickly journeyed instead to my favorite search engine. Looking up random things to pass the twenty-five minutes before my biology class began, I opened a new tab to check my email. Unless you had access to the schools' Wi-Fi password, the internet connection was spotty at best, so it was better to look into going online via your student account. Once my email had pinged open, I automatically went to my junk folder and scanned its contents, deleting and blocking everything but the student newsletter, which always went to junk for some reason.

Going back to my main inbox, I looked over a few things that were commonplace now—a bi-weekly check-in from Olga; a few new recipes; a cat video from my mother, who was under the impression that I never watched YouTube; as then a curious-looking one from Gerald. It had been sent at 11:49 p.m. the night before, long after I'd gone to bed, and I'd neglected to check my email on my phone before leaving for school. Perplexed yet skeptical, I clicked the email, having been a good twenty-percent wary of Gerald since he'd leaked the contents of my breakup with Arnold to the school newspapers.

 _Helga_ , it read.

Automatically, I lowered my eyes to the keyboard, already attempting to map-out a halfway-decent reply in my mind. Even though I accepted rides from him, as well as accepting him as Phoebe's other half, I did hold a grudge, and I was not about to automatically forgive him completely. Although I knew he'd acted in what he believed were Arnold's best interest, his actions had truly cut me to the core, and that could not easily be remedied by a few rides to school and incessant apologies my way.

 _Helga,_

 _I'm not about to beg for forgiveness again, but again, I am sorry. However, I am not writing this to you to demand such a thing. I am merely placing this here to prepare you for the attachment I've sent along to you. Below you will find a letter from Arnold. It's a letter from him to me, yet it mentions you in a few places, and I thought you had every right to see it._

— _Gerald_

My heart lurched in my throat at the notion of Gerald writing to Arnold and vise versa, and I found myself gripping the edge of the long, white table with plastic edges the desktop computer was placed upon. Biting my lip, I know I needed to face his words sooner or later, so I released my grip upon the table, and then had to attempt to quell the shaking in my hands. Once that had settled, I reached out for the mouse then, managing to reposition the screen by scrolling downward.

 _Gerald,_

 _I still can't believe that you printed the information about Helga's and my breakup in the paper. Such a thing is 99.9% unforgivable, and it will take some time before my trust in you returns. I admit, it was not my place to divulge the entire detail of that day, although as my best friend, I suppose I initially believed that you had every right to know them. Still, it is something of a private matter, and I do think you should have asked Helga for her thoughts or permission on the matter._

 _You've informed me of her anger towards you, and I cannot blame her, although I wish some of it transferred to me, as I'm the source of the leaked information. All I know is that, if she would let me, I would apologize for my atrocious behavior. I won't fault you for letting her listen to the voicemail I sent you—she deserved to know my thoughts on all the matters at hand. It may take the rest of my life, but I do hope that one day Helga forgives me for my selfish actions by leaving, not considering her feelings, divulging our breakup information to you... But most of all, not revealing my feelings for her before I left. I guess you could say that was the rottenest thing of all—not revealing my love for her before I abruptly walked out of her life._

 _Maybe the point of all this is, is that we weren't ready for all of it. We jumped into things and thought that that was it—that we would be together forever. I guess getting ready for things is important, because we weren't..._

I avert my eyes from the desktop screen, finding that it was much too difficult to continue reading his words. I could picture Arnold speaking them—his tone, the various inflections on the words, everything. And that's what cut me to the core the most—my ability to retain how he said certain words. As I lowered my head into my hands in an attempt to stop the pounding in my head, I tried and failed to figure out the answer to the equation of life. I didn't get very far, however, as the next thing invading my clouded thoughts was the school bell ringing.

. . .

" _Hey, Helga."_

 _I turned around at the sound of the voice—his voice!—saying my name like that, and, for the life of me, the awkwardness seeped through my lips before I could stop it. "Ah!" I said as I attempted to smile at him. "Hey, Arnold." The arrow I am gripping—which I've stuck into the pillar holding my heart locket—drops from its shoved location, and I just manage to kick it away as Arnold comes closer to me, causing my skin to prickle._

" _Helga, I've known you my whole life, practically, and you've always been angry and...and kinda...y'know, mean."_

" _Yeah!" I cried out, hating being attacked by anyone, especially him. "So?" I demand then, almost like it really mattered at this point._

" _But...I've also seen you be really loyal and super brave. So I always wondered if maybe you were mean to be because...well, you loved me."_

" _Love?" I demand then, wanting more than anything to dodge the topic, any topic, of love and Arnold put together. "You? Well, yeah, sure, I mean, like I love a root canal! Haha!"_

" _Listen, I know you tried to tell me before, and I wasn't ready to hear it. But now, this whole thing: the trip to San Lorenzo, getting away from Lasombra, finding my parents...it's all 'cause of you. Your locket..."_

" _Locket? What locket?" I ask, attempting to play dumb, but it is in that moment that it decides to fall from the hull of the elaborately-carved pillar behind me and to my feet._

" _Your locket, it woke up my parents!" Arnold says, happiness in his voice as he smiles at me. "You did it all," he continues, "just to help me. And...and..." He reaches out his hands to me then, angling his face upwards and closing his eyes so as it is more attainable to me._

 _Heart in my throat, I reach out then and take his hands, lowering my head down, and feeling fireworks, shooting stars, and the notion that I am soaring through the treetops of San Lorenzo all at once. I feel my foot lifting into the air, almost as if my body wants to act out every cliché in the book, and I hope that Arnold cannot hear or feel my heartbeat. However, due to his thumbs on my wrist, I think that he can tell that it is several beats per minute faster._

" _Mm-mm-_ mmm _!" we hear from somewhere far away._

 _Immediately, Arnold releases his grip upon me and I drop his hands as if they are hot coals. Turning away, I feel my cheeks warm as I proceed to whistle, almost as if that will make me bask in innocence._

" _Okay._ Now _I've seen everything!" Gerald cries out._

. . .

I manage to stumble through the remainder of sophomore year in kind of a blurred haze, not attempting to be particularly outgoing or to make any new friends. After the Christmas season passed by seemingly without a trace and winter faded rather surreptitiously into spring, the warmth did nothing to remedy the ice in my veins, let alone in my heart. With the spring came the breakup of Phoebe and Gerald, aptly in the third week of May. I guess Phoebe couldn't keep pretending to put her trust issues onto the back burner, and Gerald threw himself into the _Preparatory Periodical_ , managing to get a top reporting position for junior year.

As soon as the final bell rang on the final day of our sophomore year in the month of June, I walked out of Hillwood Academy and walked down the sun-splashed sidewalk towards the main downtown bus line. Taking the next bus, which arrived promptly four minutes after my own arrival, I rode it to the center of Downtown Hillwood, on a mission to perfect my life long-term. As I stepped off at my directed stop, I looked up at the line of imposing government buildings before me, finding a wave of anxiety wafting through me. Pushing it aside, I stepped in, making my way to the front desk, the name NANCY ST. JAMES staring back at me from the name plaque.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked, barely glancing up at me from her desktop screen.

I nodded. "Yes, ma'am," I reply. "It's Helga Pataki, seeing Attorney Thomasina Sanders at three o'clock."

Nancy St. James calls up her electronic calendar and scans the names of today's appointment holders. "Here we are," she says, clicking on the calendar, effectively checking me in. She makes a grab for a stack of papers on a clipboard and hands them over to me. "Attorney Sanders will have gotten your introductory email, but we here at Baker, Sanders, and Fairwood like a more personal approach when we are considering taking on a new client."

"Understood, ma'am," I reply, nodding.

"Why don't you have a seat and fill these out?" she asks me then, handing over a pen from the makeshift flower pot holding.

"Thank you," I reply, turning around and taking a seat in one of the wooden chairs, patterned with cheap, purple wool that was dyed terribly. I hoped the interior decorating skills—or lack thereof—did not speak for the abilities of the attorneys employed here. Scanning the top sheet upon the clipboard, I filled out my name, the date, my address, and date of birth, and continued writing for several minutes in the silence of the waiting room. The only sound came from the tiled fountain across the room, which housed real koi fish in various colors.

A door swung open a few moments later, and as I looked up automatically, I knew it was Attorney Sanders, as she looked exactly like the photograph advertising her firm's services online. She stepped forward, her expensive heels clicking on the highly-polished tile floor, and put out a hand to me. "Miss Pataki, I presume?" she asked with a kind smile.

I nodded, getting to my feet. "Yes, and may I say, it is an honor and a privilege to meet you, Attorney Sanders?"

"Tommie, please," she said with a smile as she motioned me back behind the door to follow her. "My parents named me after a favorite aunt of theirs... Never liked her much myself. She tended to pinch my cheeks after a period of extended absence," Tommie told me with a shudder, and I grinned. She took the clipboard from me and looked it over as we wandered through the back hallways, and she shut the door of her office after I slipped inside after her. "You're suing your mother and father for emancipation status?" she asked.

I nodded, sitting down in the seat she gestured for me to take. "That's right," I reply, absolutely sure of myself.

Tommie lowered herself into her comfortable-looking seat behind her desk. "And you're sixteen-years-old?"

I nodded again. "Correct."

Tommie lapsed into silence then as she continued reading my proposal for my hoped-for emancipation status before a few moments passed and she raised her eyes back to mine again. "You're sighting abuse in the form of emotional, as well as neglect and obvious favoritism towards your older sister?"

"Yes."

"Where is your older sister now?"

"California," I reply. "You'll see I noted the age difference several times in the documentation, but I felt it was necessary to include her in the draft of my proposal which will inevitably change things."

"How old is your sister... Olga, is it?"

I sighed. "Yes, Olga is twenty-seven," I say quietly. "She lives on her own and is raising a daughter."

"You've written here, in one example of why you should be emancipated, that your parents blatantly ignored your need to attend preschool, instead preferring to listen to your older sister playing the piano, which caused you to walk there on your own, through the rain, to avoid being late?"

I felt my shoulders slack. "Yes," I said simply. "A dog stole my lunchbox on the way there...and it was thunder and lightning out there. A car drove too close to the curb I stood on, and mud was caked on my overalls..."

"Your overalls...?" Tommie asked, looking appalled. "If it was thunder and lightning outside, where was your coat?"

"What coat?" I replied.

"Did you tell anyone about this?" Tommie wants to know.

I nod. "Yes, my therapist," I reply, opening my backpack and bringing out the documentation that Dr. Bliss had compiled of our sessions, which I'd had delivered to me by courier upon her death. I handed over the paperwork to Tommie, and she stared, aghast, at its bulk. "I started seeing Dr. Bliss when I was nine, in the fourth grade, and continued seeing her until she passed away in November, two years ago," I said quietly.

Tommie looked again shocked before lowering down the bulk onto her desk and sighed. "Do you have anything else to bring to the table?"

I sighed, removing my diary from preschool to the fifth grade from my backpack, which I'd stopped writing in, only to say goodbye and talk about the fun that first summer in San Lorenzo. "My diary, from the age of four to ten, which details what I suffered in my family dynamic," I reply.

Tommie opened it slowly and scanned a few pages before her eyes welled with tears and she shut the book with a snap. "I know a good judge who can handle this within the next four to six weeks," she says. "I'll take your case, and build it as best I can."

I nodded. "How much will you be wanting from me?" I ask.

Tommie immediately shakes her head. "No, Helga—you're a young woman who should be saving up for your future. I'll be doing your case pro-bono, of course, and all of our sessions."

I smiled at her. "You really don't have to—"

Tommie holds up her hand. "Yes, I do. I'm not just doing this for you, Helga, but for all the girls out there who didn't have a voice before, and never had the courage to find it until it was too late. I don't want anything bad to happen to you, and if that means saving you a couple thousand dollars, I'll do it."

I kept right on smiling at Tommie. "You're amazing for doing this," I told her, finding solace in the fact that she could save me. "Thank you."

Tommie nods. "You're welcome."

. . .

" _And I'm trying to hide behind the stinkin' garbage can, I'm just trying to get a minute alone, and there he is,_ _breathing_ _away. Of course I hit him!" I cry out then, almost as if I needed a reason to properly defend myself against Brainy's stalkerish behavior._

" _And why did you want that moment alone, Helga?" Dr. Bliss asks._

" _Because of—" I say, before cutting myself off and looking away from her, crossing my arms in an automatic gesture. "Leave me alone..."_

" _I'm hearing your anger again, Helga."_

" _Okay, so you hear my anger, so I get angry," I say, getting to my feet and walking towards the sock-me clown she has, whereupon I proceed to punch it with every insult I have for my family. "I already told you, I've got a lame mom, a blowhard dad, and a perfect sister. So they make me mad, big deal."_

" _So why do you take it out on Arnold?" Dr. Bliss wants to know._

" _Why do you keep bringing up Arnold?" I say, my emotions being tested. "I am_ not _angry at Arnold."_

" _Helga, I've seen you express more anger at him than anyone else."_

" _I don't know what you're talking about," I reply, and mentally cross my fingers that the subject will be closed—forever._

. . .

I find myself methodically packing away some things for when I move to Dr. Bliss's old apartment over the next several weeks, and giving away things I know I will not need anymore. Even though the verdict in favor of me being emancipated hasn't gone through yet, something tells me it will as I arrange for Phoebe to borrow her father's truck to have me load the larger pieces of furniture across town to my new home, when the time arrives. When Tommie calls to tell me, five and a half weeks later, that my petition was granted, I find that, for the first time since Arnold left Hillwood, I feel...well, free.

I pick a day to move when I know that my dad will be gone late at the store, and my mom will be too distracted by game shows to notice my comings and goings. I thank Phoebe profusely for all her help—the transport, as well as helping me set up my various appliances and pieces of furniture—and reward her with pizza. When I shut the door behind her that night, I look at my house key—tied with a pink silk ribbon for now—laying upon the kitchen island. Smiling to myself, I grab it and toss it into the air, catching it in my hand again.

I found out from Dr. Bliss's lawyer that I was due to inherit her money as well, and that—now that I was emancipated—I was entitled to it. I called the cell phone company and transferred my phone to my own account, and paid it up for the next six months. Then I got a grocery delivery service and bought some groceries for the next couple of weeks to tide me over. Next, I went down the street to a department store and bought some all-purpose cleaning supplies, as well as some dishes and silverware. I also splurged a little and bought a couple of different tablecloths, napkins, and placemats, and also decided on a bathroom set. Pink fluffy towels with the golden, curled letters of _HP_ looked back up at me, and I laughed, thinking of Harry Potter.

I spent the next day cleaning my apartment from room to room, although the kitchen was connected to the living room-cum-dining room, the main bathroom, and the bedroom—with attached master bathroom and closet—were really the only things that needed work. The fridge was still in good condition, thankfully, and once every surface glowed, I decided to put in an order for a washer and dryer set, which I did so immediately, and was pleased when I discovered it would arrive before I was due for my next load of laundry.

The following day, I wrote to my parents and informed them of my decision, yet I did not give them the address. The last thing I needed was for "Big Bob" Pataki storming through the hallways of the apartment building, looking for me. I would not even be surprised if he referred to me as "the girl" when he inevitably would read my mother my own words of farewell. I called Olga next, but it went to voicemail, and I crossed my fingers that my sister was on a date. I left her a message and told her that I was fine and that I was safe, and that all was as it should be.

As I go through my things—as some trash had inadvertently ended up in some of my moving boxes—I came across a few things that I could put up or out. When I found my desk, I was surprised at my ability to place it in my bedroom nearly effortlessly, despite its bulk. I inadvertently jostled one of the drawers on impact and it came crashing out of its setting and fell to the floor. Crossing my fingers that the downstairs were not crotchety people, I hastily moved to replace the drawer from its empty socket. After making sure that the wood floor—highly polished after I'd finished working on it—I automatically looked inside the drawer and raised my eyebrows at what I saw.

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _Ever since you moved away for high school, all I can think about is that you're going after your dreams. Miles and Stella bring me comfort, and we often meet up for lunch, dinner, or for a walk to pass the time. I know that you did what was right, and even though things ended between us the way they did, I am pleased that you still want to keep in touch._

Shaking my head, I took out my phone as a notification buzzed, and saw that it was one year to the day that Arnold had left. The notification turned out to be from Stella, who I had told about the court process and ruling, as well as my new apartment. I had been calling them Miles and Stella ever since the previous Christmas, when they said that Mr. and Mrs. Shortman made them feel decades older than they truly were.

After thinking on their message—which contained their desire to see the apartment—I relented and gave her the address, on her word and Miles' that they would not reveal the location to anyone. Once I had their word, I encouraged them to come over and the sooner the better. When I heard the doorbell ring a few moments later, I walked from the bedroom and to the living room, not even bothering to check my appearance as I peered through the spyhole.

"Hey, there," I said warmly as I opened the door, accepting their hugs and inviting them inside. "So, this is my new home," I said by a way of introduction, taking note of the small box in Stella's hands, as well as the large one in Miles' arms as I automatically shut and locked the door behind them. "I can get you something to drink, if you like."

"Water's great," Stella said softly.

"Same here, thanks," Miles put in.

I smiled and, turning, went into the kitchen and advancing upon the fridge, opening it and pulling out two bottles of water, shutting the fridge door behind me and offering them their bottles. "What's all that?" I asked casually, as Stella set the small box upon the island, and as Miles set his down on the floor by the kitchen breakfast bar.

"Just a housewarming gift," Stella said, pushing the small box towards me, a smile playing at her lips.

I smiled at her. "Thank you," I replied, pulling at the perfectly executed ribbon around the box. "You didn't have to do that..."

"Yes, I did," she affirmed with a smile.

Smiling, I pulled the ribbon away and opened the box, my eyebrows automatically raising at the sight before me. "Stationary," I said quietly.

"Personalized stationary, and a set of personalized pens," Stella said with a smile as I gazed at the silver lettering upon the pink pens, which read _Helga Pataki_ in curled letters.

I gazed at the booklet of letter paper and envelopes; the paper was stamped with _A Letter from Helga Pataki_ , and was lined accordingly with pale blue lines upon a cream colored paper. There was even a stamping set of various colors, to seal the letters properly, with a monogrammed HP in capitol letters. "I just... I don't know what to say," I said quietly.

Stella smiled. "You don't have to say anything," she replied.

"Except 'thank you'," Miles put in, and I laughed, as Stella shot him a look of pure and inconsequential disdain.

"Thank you," I replied. "For everything."

. . .

As I put the finishing touches onto cleaning my apartment, I pushed the box that Miles had brought to the back of my closet. Finally, when I cleaned the bottom of my closet, I put it onto the high shelf. It ate away at me as junior year began with a vengeance, and I began working at a local diner for some extra cash, being as frugal as possible as the months went by. It was around that time—quite close to Thanksgiving, as a matter of fact—that I came across that paragraph of a letter to Arnold, when an idea sprang into my head.

A phone call from Miles and Stella invited me to Thanksgiving, and I accepted, fiddling with the box containing the stationary supplies they'd bought me. As soon as I hung up, I found the piece of paper with the fraction of a letter written on it, and wrote it down on a piece of paper from the stationary. Then, without even realizing it, I found myself writing more and more to Arnold...

 _With my emancipation status granted, it's easy for me to work part-time, and for me to live at the boarding house, the commute to school about the same. Now as I live in your old bedroom, it makes me feel closer to you, even though you're on the other coast. New students come and go at P.S. 118, and now that it is a multi-grade school, some aspects of the curriculum seem to get a little lost in translation, to say the least._

 _Miles and Stella's house is not that far, as I'm sure you remember, and they would want me to tell you that they're all right. They wouldn't want me to tell you that they are struggling, as I admittedly am as well, in our mandatory separation. I know, I know—it was for the best, but it all seems akin to_ The Way We Were. _I know I am no Barbra Streisand, but you are every inch Robert Redford._

 _Junior prom season starts soon, but it doesn't matter to me. I know you will have met someone over there in New York, and I take comfort in that. I know you will have had to move on from me, as I will eventually from you. However, for the moment, you are, and will always be, my Football Head._

 _Your friend,_

 _Helga Pataki_

The illusion that I had created was note perfect, and yet I knew that Arnold would see me living in his bedroom as a joke. Since he'd known how many times I'd snuck into the boarding house, he could never imagine me living in it, could he? I thought not; he was at an Ivy League university for god's sake—I knew what he knew and what he didn't know, or at least had a vague idea.

Staring at the words I'd written, I knew then that I was ready, at long last, to have him hear from me. He was seventeen and I would be so in less than four months, and the notion that we were closer and closer than ever before to adulthood was a truly daunting experience. The old Helga would try to talk her way out of going that far in life, but this new Helga considered all the possibilities before her, now that she was away from the toxicity of her blood family.

I smiled to myself. _Arnold, Arnold, Arnold_. That kind of love didn't just die—it was just on hold, wasn't it? It had to be, I saw that now. We weren't Barbra Streisand or Robert Redford, and we never would be—we were Helga Pataki and Arnold Shortman, which were not bad people to be. The chaos that we were when we came together made us who we were, and the notion that we had wanted different things at different times did not faze me as it once had.

I gazed down at my words one last time, running my fingers over them and shaking in anticipation at the notion that they would soon grace Arnold's eyes. I knew that if I continued to dwell on that fact, then I would not have the courage to send it across the country to him. A bundle of nerves was what I was, and yet I knew that it had to be sent, as imperfect as it was, because that's why Stella had given me the stationary supplies in the first place.

I selected a stamp at random and sealed the letter, kissing the envelope, and found that a giggle escaped my lips at the prospect of Arnold touching it there. Shaking my head, I got to my feet and attached a stamp from the small roll that Stella had purchased for me, before sticking it to the proper corner of the envelope. Making a grab for my coat and hat, a small leap in my step as I walked though the main room and towards the front door, I left my apartment, locking the door behind me. As I stepped outside, the fall nip in the air turned into winter snow as I walked down the street, knowing that I was several steps closer to my inevitable destiny.


	4. Easy Come, Easy Go

Chapter Fourteen: Easy Come, Easy Go

I awoke with the alarm at six-thirty on that first day of school after Thanksgiving Break with a slam—a literal slam, as I smacked my phone to make sure it would stop playing _Dear Future Husband_ by _Meghan Trainor. I immediately loathed Olga temporarily in my just-woke-up stupor, who had surprised me for coming over for the holiday season. It had been amazing—us in the kitchen for hours on end with a turkey we'd acquired at the last minute—with little Eilis occupying herself with some of the books Olga had brought. The loathing, of course, had been Olga remedying my wake-up alarm with something a bit more preppy for the mornings ahead. Even though I much preferred_ _Somewhere Only We Know_ _by Keane, and made a mental note to change it back later that day._

Hauling myself out of the cocoon I'd made for myself in the nest of blankets, I went to my en suite bathroom and got a good look at myself in the mirror. Pure and absolute crap—yet it was nothing foundation, mascara, blush, eyeliner, eyeshadow, and lipstick couldn't fix. I splashed some water onto my face and rolled my shoulders, rinsing out my mouth for good measure before pinning my hair up as I readied my face. During the week from Monday through Thursday, I worked the late lunch and dinner shift at the local diner, Hillwood Hideaway, a short bus ride from Hillwood Academy, from four p.m. until nine p.m., a job that Stella had managed to get for me over the summer to cover expenses, as I did not want to blow off all the inheritance I'd gotten from Dr. Bliss all in one go.

I methodically reached out for my toothbrush, layering the toothpaste on thick to quell the morning breath that emitted from my mouth and dragged it in those little circles the dentists always told you to do. Once my mouth was presentable, I returned my toothbrush to its holder and dragged my brush through my hair, managing to secure it with a pink hair tie and then proceeding to put on my face for the day ahead. The shifts at Hillwood Hideaway weren't too terrible—I even picked up a shift from eleven a.m. to six p.m. on Saturday, and from ten until three p.m. on Sundays. The food wasn't too terrible, and the discounts afforded to me for being an employee certainly helped in subsidizing my income.

I stepped out of the bathroom and returned to my bedroom, walking towards my dresser and removing a frilly blouse, a simple black skirt, and sweater tights, while I gathered my Mary Jane heels from the back wall. Getting all my clothes on was a cinch, and I then made a grab for my essay for English class from my printer, placing it into its proper divider of my binder before slipping everything into my backpack and placing that upon my shoulders. I made a grab for my phone, seeing that I had a couple of minutes to spare, and checked my email and social media to make sure that I didn't have anything pressing to attend to. Once I discovered I did not, I did my best to gather my wits about me for the day ahead as I unplugged my phone and pocketed my charger, leaving my bedroom and making my way into the kitchen, where I fetched an oats and honey bar for breakfast before fetching my lunch—packed the night before—from the fridge.

I slipped my lunch into my backpack as I approached the entryway, grabbing my set of keys off the hook and unlocking my front door as I went. Turning out and into the hallway, I pulled the door shut behind me, locking it quickly, whereupon I stuffed my hands into my pockets and walked down the hallway. The carpets, although they must have once been high-quality, were frayed in some spots, and covered in others that were reminiscent of some form of bodily fluid that I did not care to know too much about. I approached the elevator and clicked the 'down' button, tapping my foot impatiently for the car to arrive, and once it did, I got in quickly to make sure that I could ride down on my own. The car took me swiftly down to the ground floor, and as I stepped out into the main lobby of the apartment building, I waved in greeting to Christine Hutchinson, the sister of the man who owned the building company, who worked the front desk and also managed the entire building.

"Mail's been dropped off already, Helga," she called as I walked towards the revolving door to the main street outside.

I turned mid-walk. "Thank you!" I called back, not even bothering to wonder the sudden earliness of the mail drop-off, but decided to ignore it.

Stepping down the hallway just before the main doors, I walked towards the mail boxes that dotted every surface, before I found mine—717A. I removed my set of keys from my pocket, the small, silver mailbox key dangling from the chain, and put it into the golden lock. Turning it to the right, the box opened willingly for me and I took out the stack of white envelopes that awaited me from inside. I shut and locked the box automatically and looked through the main, hovering in the hallway for a moment in case I had to recycle some advertisements or tear up some fake credit card letters.

I was only looking for one thing, really—bills, of course. But, then again, there was another thing that I hoped to find—a letter from Arnold. Sure, he had no reason to write to me, given the way that I'd ended things, and the cryptic phone call three months after he left to tell him about Dr. Bliss certainly didn't help matters further. Biting my lower lip, I blitzed through the small stack of letters I'd received, letting out a slight sigh of sorrow when I came out disappointed. I slipped the necessary letters into my backpack to deal with later, and recycled the unneeded ones as the negated pieces of paper that they were. Stuffing my hands into my pockets again, I trudged back up the hall and towards the revolving doors, ready to face the day, and the music, ahead.

. . .

 _Her shaking her head at my words frightens me, but I can't do anything about it—not now. "I can't just live because you beg for it, Helga. I can't." She claps my hand again. "But I know it'll work out."_

" _Tell me it's going to be okay," I say brokenly._

 _She smiles. "I know it will be," she replies, her eyes shutting then, and it is then that I hear the heart monitor flat-line, and her grip goes slack in mine, and I fall to my knees in despair as there is a flurry of activity around me, as all the doctors and nurses attempt to save her life in vain._

 _I mechanically drag myself out of there, walking down the hall of the hospital and outside, where I walk the two miles home. I lean up against my house when I arrive, the tears frozen on my cheeks, as I take out my phone and dial the number that I'd been given by Mr. and Mrs. Shortman, but had vowed never to use. When the voice on the other end answers, fresh tears form in my eyes._

" _Helga? Is that you?"_

 _I clear my throat. "Yes," I reply._

" _What's wrong?" he asks, immediately concerned._

 _I sigh then, and find I cannot say it. "Dr. Bliss is gone," I whisper, and then my hand goes slack and I cut the call._

. . .

I made my way down the block; Hillwood Academy was located only a handful of blocks away from my inherited apartment, which was a blessing in disguise, as it would guarantee more time on my feet overall. The day was gray and overcast and the sidewalks were still drenched from last nights' rain, and I was thankful for the grips on my heels to prevent me from spiraling out of control or breaking my ankle along the cracks. Looking up on the final stretch of road between myself and my high school, I saw that it was just visible through the layer of fog which had decided to develop as I walked along.

I walked up the stairs leading to the campus and walked towards the courtyard which separated the entryway from the rest of the world. I heard my name being called from behind me and turned to see Phoebe, a smile in her eyes as she stepped forward to walk with me. I slowed my walk slightly to accommodate hers as we walked towards the main double doors of the school.

"おはようございます, Helga," she said with a smile.

A smile played at my lips. "No Japanese today, Phoebe," I replied, turning to catch her reaction. "I have a headache."

"Oh, okay," she replies quickly with a grin. "English!" she chimes out, giving me a thumbs-up.

I let out a small laugh as we approach the double-doors of Hillwood Academy, which we manage to get open despite their heaviness and advance through. We were on our way to Advanced English Literature, where we were discussing feminism in the works of William Shakespeare, Thomas Hardy, and Jane Austen, where we would ultimately be assigned a book to work on. We were given preliminary lists just before Thanksgiving, and had to have our top five books or plays of choice submitted by the day before Christmas vacation. Mrs. Dobsen, our teacher, would them email us during the holidays to let us know which book or play we had been assigned.

"Any idea which book you may want to do a project on, Helga?" Phoebe asked as we passed through the academic hallway.

I sighed. "Maybe _Pride and Prejudice_ ," I reply.

"Will you discuss Elizabeth Bennet's plight about how she refuses Mr. Collins in a heroic act of feminism?" she wants to know.

I feel my lip curling upwards at the thought of the rather creepy, slightly stalkerish Mr. Collins running his hands all over Elizabeth Bennet, and wondered then what she would say to that. "That sounds like a good key point, which I could easily expand to three paragraphs, if not more," I reply. "How about you? Which book is calling your name?"

" _Tess of the d'Urbervilles_ ," Phoebe replies with a smile.

"How very Anastasia Steele of you," I reply as we walk through the halls to the staircase which will lead us upstairs to the English department hallway. "Methinks that would be an interesting book to report on..."

" _Fifty Shades of Grey_?" my best friend replies, her eyebrows rising and falling quickly, almost as if it was even a scandal to discuss such a book—if one could call it that—in the hallways of a high school. "Why? She lets Christian Grey dominate her at every turn..."

I shrug. "She may be the submissive, but they only ultimately do what she is comfortable with, so one could make a case for her holding the puppet strings," I put in as we begin climbing the second flight of stairs. "Sure, I'd never allow myself to be mixed up in a relationship like that..."

"Is it because of self-respect?" Phoebe wanted to know.

I shake my head. "No, no—nothing like that," I reply as we finish climbing the stairs and arrive in the proper hallway, the clamor of other students easily drowning out our controversial conversation. "It has to do with the notion of knowing myself and what I would and would not be comfortable with...in the bedroom," I say quietly, my cheeks heating at the notion and hastily force myself to banish the thought.

"Arnold was fourteen when he left, just like you..."

"Yeah, so?!" I demand then, already on the offensive, and immediately I regret it and feel my shoulders deflate. "Sorry, continue."

"It's okay," Phoebe replies with a small smile as we hesitate for a moment outside our classroom. "All I'm saying is, plenty of teenagers find themselves in those particular situations. It's perfectly normal, but not typically advised, due to the emotional immaturity one is faced with."

I sigh. "Phoebe, what are you getting at?" I ask, knowing we have a good five minutes before we need to be in class, but this is not something I'd even want to be discussing under any circumstances—well, maybe not, but especially not in the hallway of our high school. "Just tell me."

She sighs. "Did you and Arnold...do anything?" she asks. "You were together for a few years there..."

I felt my cheeks heat again as I lowered my eyes. "No," I reply, "we didn't do anything like that."

"Like that as in _Fifty Shades_ like that, or as in...?"

"As in, we only made out," I say, a little more forcefully than I intended. "I'm being totally and completely honest here, Phoebe. Arnold wanted me to, and I guess maybe other people just assumed, but... No."

Phoebe nodded. "I see."

I sighed. "What about you and Gerald?" I asked, knowing that me turning the tables here wasn't exactly called for, but I _did_ have every right to at least pose the question to my best friend. "Did you two...?"

Phoebe sighs. "Yes."

I blinked, shocked that Phoebe would allow it to get that far, and immediately wondered if her parents knew. _Likely not_ , I thought to myself. "And when did this joyous occasion happen?" I want to know.

Phoebe's lips thinned, never particularly wanting to discuss her ex-boyfriend, whom I knew she still harbored feelings for, but romance and trust issues, I knew, did not mix. "Last spring," she replied.

"Last spring?" I asked, shocked that she would cough up the information about this seemingly frightening topic so quickly.

"Last spring," she affirmed. "We went to that beach cabin for a spring break, and I wanted to, even though I knew we were on the rocks about everything... I mean, we only broke up a few weeks later..."

"Not because of that?" I ask.

"Oh, no," Phoebe replied, shaking her head. "No, I guess I just thought—due to my apparent emotional immaturity—that maybe if we let it get that far, then maybe we could find a way to salvage the relationship..."

I sighed, leaning up against the wall. "You know that couldn't possibly have worked in any situation, right?" I asked.

Phoebe smirked, walking past me towards the door to the classroom. "Don't remind me," she muttered over her shoulder.

. . .

I got out of school at three-thirty sharp and made my way from campus down the block towards the bus stop, which arrived ten minutes later. The Avril Lavigne song pumping in my ears as I walked soothed me, yet it seemed to be like the story of my life as I approached the stop. Sitting upon the offered, splintered wooden bench provided, I remembered many conversations I'd had with Arnold in such a place, permitting my mind to temporarily seep away from itself as I lowered myself into it, contemplation filling me then...

" _Dr. Bliss says that I should channel my anger in more productive ways," I reply as we walk through the doors outside._

" _What has she suggested?" he asks._

" _She says I should write one letter every day to the person who makes me the angriest in my life..."_

" _Your dad?"_

 _I sigh, going to sit on the bench against the brick wall with him, where we wave to the likes of Nadine, Patty, Stinky, Sid, and all the rest of them, who got Gerald's warning not to give us nonsense about now being in a relationship. "I think that's a given," I reply._

" _Have you ever asked him?" Arnold asks. "Directly, I mean—when he's not trying to sell beepers to people..."_

" _Or distracted by my mom or Olga," I say, sneering when I utter her name, and mentally curse myself for doing so. Sanction later, Helga, I tell myself. "No, and he probably would think the letter was fake or demeaning towards him in character, which, arguably, it is, and then tear it up. Thankfully, I managed to find a way to copy them without him knowing it, just in case I want to show him the damaging affects someday..."_

" _I just hope that he sees reason—with you and with his business," Arnold replies, shaking his head. "What's the word on that?"_

" _Beats me—I'm trying to stay out of it," I tell him. "Next year we start middle school, and that's where the fun begins."_

" _You're not having fun now?" he asks._

 _I blink, immediately turning to look at him. "No, of course, I—" Immediately, I see that he is smiling. "You are such a Football Head," I mutter, and he leans in and kisses me on the cheek. "But I suppose I can get used to it..."_

" _Like I can get used to being your boyfriend," he says, placing a gently hand upon my shoulder._

 _Almost instantly, I feel my skin prickle all over and feel myself melting. "Ohhh!" I whisper to myself, and Arnold smiles._

" _You know, they sent me the tape of the news reporting on us getting the trip to San Lorenzo," Arnold tells me._

" _Really?" I ask. "How was that? Was the news reporter embellishing, as some of them often do?"_

" _No," he says, "but I did see you leaving my house."_

 _I feel myself flushing then, and know that my face is as bright as a day-old tomato left in the heat. "What?" I ask._

" _I saw you leaving my house," he repeats patiently._

 _I lower my eyes to the bench, the large nails beginning to gather rust around their respective edges, and the planks of wood severely water-damaged and splintering in some places. "Did you?" I say._

" _I did," Arnold confirms. "Let's just say it was nothing short of a completely adorable experience."_

 _My eyes shoot up to his, feeling as vulnerable as we did when we were suspended from the makeshift wooden bridge with Gerald. "Adorable?" I ask._

" _Yes," Arnold replies. "You were dancing around and clutching your heart like the best thing in the world had happened to you. What did happen...?"_

" _You touched my shoulder," I reply, knowing that it sounds lame now. "I just felt like a turning point had been reached, you know? Like suddenly you didn't just see me as the bully Helga Pataki, but someone that you could, I don't know, actually care about on a different level..."_

" _That's all it took?" Arnold wants to know._

" _Well, you know as well as I do that I would've done anything to make you notice me," I say, picking at some of the splintered wood on the bench. "All I wanted was you not to hate me..."_

" _I never hated you, Helga," Arnold replies, briefly covering his hand with mine. "I think it would've helped, had I known the entire story about what was going on in your personal life, but you were never one to open up with anyone. I mean, does Phoebe even know the entire story?"_

" _The abridged version," I tell him._

 _Arnold nods. "I get that—I mean, my family life has never been normal, and I doubt it ever will be. I mean, I have a pig named Abner who lives with us practically, even though my grandparents still don't fully grasp that. Even getting him up to my bedroom during the cold nights is difficult..."_

" _I mean, at least your parents like me..." I say quietly._

" _You saved their lives," he says. "Of course they like you."_

" _That's comforting," I reply. I turn towards the school then, and count to ten in my head. "I like them, too," I say softly, my reply drowned out by the bell ringing, nearly splitting my eardrums in the process._

" _Let's get back to class," Arnold says softly, offering his hand again._

The bus arriving catches my thoughts in their tracks as I hastily get to my feet, getting into my pocket and retrieving my bus card as the doors open. After the other passengers exit, I hop up onto the step and scan my card before looking around for a seat. Taking one towards the back and beside a window, I crank up the volume in my headphones, attempting to become Zen as we leave the area designated as the Hillwood Academy and Preparatory campuses and make our way towards Downtown Hillwood.

Once my stop arrived, I hop off the bus again, shouting a "Thank you!" to the driver as I make my way down the block and around the corner, where Hillwood Hideaway is located. I slip down the alley way of the restaurant and in through the back employee entrance, greeting the cooks in the kitchen as I make my way to the hole-in-the-wall staff lounge, down the hall from the manager's office. The floors throughout the back of Hillwood Hideaway are a brick-red tile, which the cleaning staff—who comes during the weekend—has to work double-time to keep the grout out from between the tiles.

I swipe my employee card into the staff lounge door, making my way inside and towards the lockers located on the back wall. Mine is midway up, and I slip my backpack off from around my shoulders as I dig inside for my apron, which we employees have to wash ourselves. I shove my backpack into my locker and tie my apron on around my waist, before making a grab for my combination lock in the empty mason jar beside the lockers and clip it into place. My coat is hung with the rest of them upon the pegs along the wall, just next to the lockers, and I make a grab for my name tag from the hook just beside the coat pegs and dip my hands into my pocket for my order book and my pen. Finding both necessities in place, I make my way out of the staff room, stopping once through the kitchen to wash my hands before getting out onto the floor, where the hostess, Samantha, flashes me a good-natured smile, letting me know that it will likely be dead for a couple of hours before the dinner rush.

I walk towards her and make a grab for some cleaning supplies, just as a middle-aged man pays for the meal he shared with a much-younger woman with Samantha before I go over to their vacant table, a bussing bin already in my arms. I clear away their plates, glasses, and other dish materials and bring them back into the kitchen, leaving the cleaning supplies beside the table, and place them into the sink. Walking back out into the restaurant, I wet my rag with disinfectant and wipe down the table, making sure to get all the corners along the wall before stepping back and admiring my handiwork. I spritz some hand sanitizer upon my hands as I return to Samantha's side to return the cleaning supplies; the couple have moved on their way, and I can see them getting into their car across the street.

"They okay?" I ask her, nodding to the couple as I duck beneath the hostess counter to place the cleaning supplies on their proper shelf.

Samantha was a pretty young woman with striking red hair and silver eyes; in her early thirties, she had a certain disdain for the world which I could agree with, although she was kind and served as a mentor for me on the job, and was always game for a talk. "As okay as an executive and his mistress can be," Samantha replied disdainfully, rolling her eyes.

I let out a short laugh then. "How do you know they're not married?" I ask her as I watch the man drive off, the woman in the passenger seat.

"Other than the fact that he was wearing a wedding ring and she wasn't," she said quietly, "it was their body language that told the full story."

I raise my eyebrows, making sure that our boss—Greg Showalter, Samantha's older brother—wasn't watching, before I causally leaned upon the hostess desk and felt my eyebrows knitting together. "What specifically about their body language?" I wanted to know.

Samantha smiled. "Well, for one thing, customers _must_ think that restaurant employees are blind," she replied, rolling her eyes with a scoff. "I mean, it's not like I can't see underneath the table..."

I snort then, lowering my voice further. "Footsie or fondling?" I ask, knowing that there is criteria for these things.

"Both," Samantha confirms. "Feet for him, fondle for her."

"Certainly doesn't leave much to the imagination," I reply, rolling my shoulders as I push the thoughts from my mind. "How are the kids?"

Samantha smiles, likely picturing her six-year-old daughter, Tess, and four-year-old son, Willy, in that moment. "Good. The deadbeat's child support actually came in on time," she muttered.

I roll my eyes. "Good," I reply. "I remember when he had the audacity to come in here next week with... God, what was her name...?"

"Ruby," Samantha sneered, "his fiancée."

I shake my head. "Corporate type, just like him?"

She nods. "Yeah. Of course, when we were together a few months and Chad said that he made such-and-such amount, I told him I wouldn't quit my job, even though it would've been enough for pretty much anything. But Chad insisted that I should quit and raise the family..."

"Do you miss it?" I ask her.

"Being a psychiatrist?" she wants to know, shrugging. "I don't know—I mean, it might not have been a good fit for me..."

"Why's that?" I want to know.

Samantha looks around again, almost as if Greg is going to come stomping out here at any moment, waving his manager clipboard, and demanding results, despite the fact that there were currently no customers on the premises. "Well, you know how with medicine, the first rule is 'do no harm'?"

I nod. "Of course."

Samantha sighs, her shoulders deflating. "Well, if you sleep with your client, that's considered harmful," she tells me. "If one were to do that, and then recommend another therapist, that would be one thing..."

"But it's not like you made a habit of it, right?" I want to know. "No judgement, of course, but..."

Samantha nods. "It's a valid question—a loaded one, but a valid one all the same. I mean, certainly there were attractions to other clients—despite the 'Dr.' in front of my name, I'm still human," she admits. "But I never acted on anything of that nature until Greg came into my life. It just sort of happened, and he was single and so was I, and we just...clicked."

I nod then, still looking around for customers. "I can understand that."

"Total whirlwind," she tells me, smiling at the memory. "In three months, we were living together—his place, of course—and then for our six-month anniversary, he surprised me with the house. And then I found out I was pregnant with Tess so we got married and then I took maternity leave, but ended up quitting a few weeks after I got back to the job... Then I got pregnant with Willy and then things started spiraling out of control..."

"He started seeing other women?" I guess.

"Well, yeah, but of course it was the age old story of working late and dinners out with clients and out-of-town conferences... I felt so stupid that I believed his lies for almost three years, and then the whole bombshell came from someone who worked with the company. They called me, letting me know that he was seeing Ruby and that they seemed to be in love. And when I confronted him on it, the son of a bitch didn't even deny it..."

"But that's good, right?" I ask.

She shrugged. "Is any marriage breakup good?"

"Sure wish mine would've gone their separate ways..." I mutter.

Samantha smiles, taking my hand. "Maybe they were just a bad fit, but good in the beginning... I mean, that's how me and Greg were—I think. I mean, sure, it was complex how we got together, but..."

"But what?" I ask.

She shrugs. "I don't know... Maybe I wanted him to lie to me, to convince me that this person was out to get him and that it was all a lie cooked up to ruin our marriage..."

I smile faintly at her. "Isn't it better to be hurt by the truth than a lie tacked on as the truth?"

"Who said that?" Samantha asked, dashing the tears from her eyes.

I smiled. "I did."

. . .

I wake up with my alarm the following morning and do a rather unmotivated rendition of getting ready. I was working again that day, so my professional outfit was in place as I made my way from my apartment, down the hall, and towards the elevator. Thankfully, I had the car to myself for the second day in a row, and when it dinged in the lobby, I was relieved to have been alone throughout the duration of my ride. As I walked through the lobby on that Tuesday November morning, I waved hello to Christine Hutchinson as always.

"Mail's here, Helga!" she called out to me.

"Thank you!" I called back, walking down the corridor just before the revolving door and making my way to my mailbox. Grabbing my keys from my pocket, I stuck them into the keyhole and turned it, my individual letterbox popping open with the keys' help. I stuck my hand into the compartment, flipping through the mail methodically and letting out a gasp at the final letter.

It was from Arnold—to me. He had finally written me back. Hastily, I ripped open the letter, knowing that I still had time, and unfolded the pages, my heart beating in my ears as my eyes greedily took in his written words.

 _Dear Helga,_

 _I also regret how we ended things, and yet this whole keeping the communication track open was a good idea—the mature thing to do. I'm glad that you're keeping in touch with my parents—you risked your life to save them, after all, and I know they are appreciative about your spending time with them. Of course, I won't tell them that you mentioned how much they missed me—they really don't need to hear that; even I can understand that._

 _This co-ed boarding school is definitely a new experience for me. Winning that contest at the end of eighth grade...it was quite a game-changer. Even though Gerald says you didn't, I swear that maybe you had something to do with it. Of course, I know you well enough that I couldn't ask you that question directly, unless we were face-to-face. Ever since San Lorenzo, it became easier and easier to read you like a book, which was one of the many things I loved about you. It's hard—this separation—but who knows? Maybe everyone's dreams will come true, and the outcome could be, maybe, real._

 _It's been two years since I moved to New York—man, almost two and a half. It's hard to believe that when we said goodbye at the airport when we were fourteen that it would be the last time. Your letters help, and I'd never ask you to stop writing them—maybe include one of your poems next time. I must admit, the one about me making your girlhood tremble had to have been my favorite. Were you really nine when you wrote that?_

 _I want to go back to Hillwood and see everybody—not kidding; I miss everyone, Gerald, Patty, Phoebe, Harold...everyone. Especially you. When we said goodbye at fourteen, I thought that my parents would at least want to come out here, or that I could arrange a time to come and see home. It's not that easy; this program is so intense that even carving out some time to write this puts a dent in my day. But it's worth it, because this method of communication is one of my last links to home—to you—and I'm not ready to give that up either._

 _Your friend,_

 _Arnold Shortman_

I held the letter to my heart, tears streaming down my face as I forced it back from me, so as I could read his words one last time. I pocketed the letter, vowing to keep it for as long as I needed before disposing of my unwanted mail. I waved a final goodbye to Christine before walking out the revolving door and into the morning, which had suddenly turned sunny and bright, which was a clear representation of my personality.


	5. Highs and Lows

Chapter Fifteen: Highs and Lows

The notion that the ball was formally in my court when it came to my detailed correspondence with Arnold remained at the back of my mind for an entire week without results. Midterms were coming up, plus there was my hectic schedule at work, which I knew would play hell with my ability to take an hour or so to figure out what I wanted to say to Arnold next. The walk to school the following week, now that December had formally arrived, was an uneventful one, although the black ice on the ground caused me to leave earlier than usual, for, as usual, I had work after school and I didn't particularly want to show up dripping wet to either of my obligations that morning or afternoon. Phoebe met me at the gates as usual, her shoulders deflated ever so slightly as we made our way up the stairs and towards the main doors.

"Something on your mind?" I asked casually, getting the door for us and allowing her to step inside first.

She shrugged. "I don't know. I guess the notion that I'll be single for the first time over the holidays since we were elven," she replies.

I smile at her. "Hey, you're not alone there," I reply. "Who knows? Maybe we can have an annual singles Christmas tradition at my place. Your parents don't mind if you come over, do they?"

Phoebe shook her head. "I think the whole unsupervised thing at someone else's house goes out the window eventually, if no boys'll be there."

I laugh. "No boys," I assure her. "Just lots of chick flicks and junk food. Think they'll be okay with that?"

She returns the laughter as we make our way upstairs. "No, I don't think they'll have an issue with that."

"I have the weekend before Christmas off, so unless you have a big family party or something, we can do it then if you like."

"No parties, don't worry," Phoebe replies. "Sounds great."

"Good," I say, relieved at having some sort of holiday plan.

We had reached the inside of the school by this point, automatically removing our hats and scarves, leaving our coats on as we made our journey to the proper staircase needed to get to our first class. The hallways were blanketed with winter decorations—not Christmas, as the school board took issue with that—and all the other teenagers surrounding us were shouting to be heard over the numerous conversations happening around us. As we made our way up the stairs, a thought passed through Phoebe's mind, as her expression, I noticed, had changed as we continued towards our classroom.

"It's your turn to send a letter to Arnold, right?" she asked.

I nodded. "That's right."

Phoebe considered this for a moment. "Do you have any idea what you're going to say to him?" she asks.

I shrug. "No idea. Now that I no longer want to scream at him and berate him for leaving, all I can do to be polite... It takes up a lot of energy," I confess. "Not that you're not a good sounding board, Phoebe, but..."

"I understand," my best friend replies with a smile. "Dr. Bliss, according to you, had a way of putting things to make you feel like you were getting somewhere, even if you had no idea where the conversation was going."

I finish the last of the flight of stairs and await Phoebe at the top. "I do miss her, and I won't dispute that," I say quietly. "Ironically, I found some interesting documents when I went through her stuff..."

"Yeah?" Phoebe asked as we walked down the hallway. "Old therapy notes on former patients?"

I nodded. "Yes, and let me tell you, I had a hell of a time tracking everyone down and sending them the documentation, after I discussed it with her lawyer," I tell her in a quiet voice. "But no, that's not what I meant."

"What did you mean?"

"I found...adoption papers," I say, lowering my voice to a whisper.

"Adoption papers?" Phoebe asked. "For a dog or a kid?"

I laughed, always thinking that Dr. Bliss would've been more of a cat person, the more I got to know her. "Not really a kid... An adolescent, actually."

Phoebe stopped me from walking down the hallway then by putting her hand out, as concerned parents would do to their children when they came to a sudden stop while driving. "Helga, what are you telling me?"

I locked my eyes with hers. "It was me, Phoebe," I tell her. "Dr. Bliss wanted to adopt me."

Phoebe's eyebrows raised off the charts. "But what happened?" she asked. "She had a lovely home, a generous income, and you yourself told me of the absolute hell you went through when growing up with your parents... She likely had a whole books' worth of dirt on them—"

I sighed, rolling my shoulders and deciding to take a moment to drop off a couple of textbooks in my locker, across the way from my first class, which I would not need until after lunch. "The agency turned her down," I reply, my voice sounding like it was made of lead as I manage to remember my combination and open my locker, decorated sparsely with a couple of pictures of me and Phoebe, as well as Olga with Eilis.

"Why would they do something like that?!" Phoebe cried, outraged. "You would have done so much better with her—"

"I know that," I reply, shoving my trigonometry, European history, and chemistry textbooks into my locker before I find myself gripping onto its door in an attempt to steady myself. "Don't you think I know that?"

Phoebe goes silent for a moment, knowing that her tirade against social services really isn't helping. "I'm sure you do," she said quietly after a moment. "I'm so sorry, Helga. It's unacceptable, is what it is."

I shrug, slamming my locker shut before leaning against it. "Hey, I mean, I got the next best thing, didn't I? An escape route from my parents, one that I should've gotten a long time ago..."

"But why didn't they let you be adopted by her?" Phoebe asks.

I sighed. "Something about me not being in foster care, and I guess because since my parents never hit me or...did anything to me...like that... Then, I suppose they thought I was physically safe and, therefore, did not warrant an immediate removal of me from my family home..."

Phoebe sighed. "Well, still... I'm sorry. They should have considered every angle and not made it easier on themselves by not removing you."

I smile at that. "Yeah, you're right," I say, nodding at her. "Who knows? I mean, maybe one day I'll get the divine opportunity to introduce them to Old Betsy and the Five Avengers..."

"By _hitting_ them?!" Phoebe cried.

I smirked. "No, no, no. Just by showing them off," I put in with a laugh before turning around and walking off to class, Phoebe at my heels.

. . .

 _P.S. To answer your question—even though it was hinted at, yet not posed—no. I have not found someone romantically to occupy my time. I think that ship has sailed. If you can, come to New York for Christmas—I think it would be great to talk face-to-face._

The words lingered in my mind then, as they had over the past week, as I rode the bus from school into Downtown Hillwood. The notion that Arnold wanted to see me was overwhelming, and yet I knew that I'd never be able to afford a ticket. I had responsibilities now, a household to run, and property taxes to pay. Dr. Bliss owning the apartment made sure that I never had rent bills or collectors at my door, but I still had to pay for my phone and internet bills. Life was not about to hand me anything on a silver platter, and I knew it wouldn't be right for me to expect it to, even if it was what I truly wanted.

I got off the bus at my stop and walked down the alley, letting myself into the back entrance as always. I headed right back to hang up my backpack and coat, shaking out my hair to make sure my hat hadn't ruined it completely, straightening my skirt over my tights before tying my apron on and putting on my nametag. I pocketed the order sheet I'd inevitably have to fill out a minimum of a half-dozen times that late afternoon/early evening, and made my way back to the front, after securing my backpack away.

"Hey," I called to Samantha, walking up to her, straightening my nametag as I did so, and leaned down upon her hostess counter. "Any reservations today?" I want to know, even though the format was really just a formality.

"None whatsoever," she replied with a smile. "The lunch rush was pretty crowded earlier, so I don't anticipate a big dinner crowd."

"Good to know," I say.

"So how's that boyfriend of yours?" she asks.

I immediately flush and lower my eyes, straightening out the menus. "Boyfriend? I don't know what you're talking about..."

"Yes, you do," Samantha replied knowingly as I raised my eyes to hers. "The one whose letter you can't put down, which I happen to see sticking out of your apron pocket," she tells me, and I quickly shove it deeper, down below the order pad. "I know a stolen heart when I see one."

I sigh. "Well, he did steal it, when we were four," I reply.

"Well, if he's in New York, why don't you take it back?"

I purse my lips. "Because it's not that simple," I tell her. "We dated for three years and then he was gone."

"There's more to the story than that, isn't there?"

I laugh darkly then. "Oh, trust me. It's a long and drawn out soap opera, with deaths and surprises... Thankfully no pregnancies," I reply, thinking that being sixteen and being a mother all on my own was definitely not in the cards for me. "I mean, he and I...we never..."

"Good," Samantha said, patting my hand. "You're too young for all that stuff anyway, Helga. But correct me if I'm wrong—he asked you to take it further than you wanted to?"

"Of course," I reply. "He's a teenage boy."

Samantha shakes her head, checking her phone for a moment in case her babysitter called with an emergency. "All teenage boys need to be told that it's not all about them and their needs... They really need to learn to be more sensitive about that sort of thing..."

"I'm sure not all teenage boys are like that," I reply as Samantha looks up at me with a perplexed look. "I mean, we shouldn't generalize..."

Samantha sighs, putting her phone away. "Yes, I know you're right," she replies, drumming her fingers upon her desk. "I suppose I'm overtly bitter because of my circumstances with Chad, but it can't be helped..."

"What's the word on that?" I want to know.

Samantha sighs. "Apparently, I didn't have the right to know that Ruby was invited to Tess's birthday party last weekend," she replied bitterly.

"Oh, no," I replied, envisioning it now.

"Ruby calls her _Contessa_ —nobody calls her that except for my mother, Eileen, and only when she's done something 'bad'. Anyhow, Ruby presents Tess with a cell phone and when I tell her that she's not old enough to have one immediately after she opens it, I'm suddenly the bad guy."

I give a slow smile to Samantha. "You know, I know having Ruby being there and severely overstepping can't be good, but don't you think that that particular discussion could've waited until later?"

Samantha sighs, checking her phone again before returning it to her pocket. "I mean, you're probably right—that's what I would've advised any client of mine to do if they were dealing with their ex's soon-to-be spouse. But I guess by Ruby's overstepping, I just couldn't stop myself and just went on automatic pilot as Tess's mother and protector..."

I smiled. "Well, it can't be all bad, can it?"

"No," she replied. "I mean, at least the kids have my name."

I raise my eyebrows. "Not Chad's name?"

"No way—his name means 'rude' in French," she replied, shaking her head. "I don't want Tess or Willy to have to deal with all that stigma."

"What does your last name mean?" I ask.

"Pretty forest in German," she replies with a small smile. "I used to love telling people that when I was a kid..."

"Mine means creek or brook in Hungarian," I say quietly. "Probably why I love to swim so much..." I turn around then at the sound of the door opening, seeing what appears to be a father with a small boy with him, and move away from the hostess desk so that Samantha can seat them. I approach the table soon thereafter, giving them water and letting them know I would be back to take their drink and/or meal orders before going off to wait.

I take their order within a few moments, and soon a handful of other customers come into the restaurant, and I do my best to keep up solo. I don't mind busy work, because it has always helped in keeping my mind off things. When my break finally arrives, two hours into my shift, I head back into the staff lounge with a plate of food for dinner. I have a half an hour to eat dinner, look over my homework, or do whatever I want before I must return to work. With Samantha taking over for my break, I chew the special that night—chicken marsala—slowly and contemplate what I can say to Arnold.

Not knowing what you want to say to the love of your life was a good way to start, I figured, so I took out my stationary and a pen—which I'd been keeping in my backpack for emergencies—and tapped the writing utensil against the paper. I took another bite of my dinner, wondering what I could possibly say. Obviously, I couldn't come to New York for Christmas—Arnold obviously did not fully get that his and my circumstances were vastly different. I didn't fault him for it—I couldn't, because we'd been raised differently, and I knew to blame someone for how they were raised was futile, wasn't it?

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _Everyone always says, "look before you leap" and I'm seriously considering re-writing the history books and delving into what everyone really means on the subject itself. As I look back on all our years together, really considering where it all began, I would have to say in preschool—I never told you that before; I wish I had, but I didn't, so here it goes._

 _You remember me talking about my "parents" not acknowledging me and only listening to Olga playing piano, and that I had to walk in the rain without a coat. A stray dog stole my lunch—did you know that? He was probably in worse shape than I was but, on top of everything else, it just made it worse. By that time, I was completely covered in rain and mud, and when I walked down that rain-slicked street, and came face-to-face with you for the first time, I found I could barely form a coherent sentence. Not only did you shield me from the rain with your umbrella, but you didn't comment on the fact that I was covered in wet, sticky mud. Instead, you said you liked my bow because it was pink like my pants. That's where it all began Arnold, honestly._

 _I'm not faulting you for going to New York—I would never do that. The University of Barnard's Architecture Department is so fortunate to have you. I love that they permit you to still complete your high school education. I wish I could do mine in a timelier manner, and yet all of it seems like complete nonsense at the end of the day, when you get right down to it. At this point, the "right of passage" that everyone speaks of is using the iPads or Tablets in the classroom instead of a hunk of a tree and a pencil. Like Rhonda, we all have to adjust ever so slightly when it comes to our education and sacrifices, although they should be few and far between, are evident._

 _To answer your question about coming to New York for Christmas... Honestly, Arnold, I'd love to; I miss you terribly but I can't. Not only do I not have the money for something like that right now, but I also have bills to pay. I had to survive three weeks on just instant ramen—living the college dream with the high school schedule. And during the holidays at the diner, we make time and a half, and I can't pass that up. This was my choice, moving out and gaining employment and getting away from my family, while going to New York was yours. Even though I wish we didn't have to be apart, I also knew that even attempting to stay in a relationship would prove to be too difficult. As I've said before, we were only fourteen when you left, and the notion that we could even try to keep it up likely would have ended in a double heartbreak._

 _Letting you go is likely the hardest decision I had to make, but it had to be done because I could stand in the way of you and your dreams. I also think that_

 _Ignore that last part, Arnold, and don't you dare try to hold it up to the light to try and decipher it. The mystery is over, and so must we be._

 _Your friend,_

 _Helga Pataki_

I feel like an idiot, crossing out the penultimate paragraph, like an eighth-grader writing a note to their school age crush. Of course, it was exactly what Arnold was, in an essence, so I gave myself points for authenticity. Shaking my head, I sealed the envelope before I could change my mind about continuing the correspondence at all, knowing that it was something I had to do. From there, I finished what was left of my dinner before going into the employee bathroom, washed my hands, and put the plate into the kitchen sink before returning to work.

. . .

I'd put the letter to Arnold in the mailbox beside the apartment building before I went in after work, barely managing to make it in one piece back inside. I rode the elevator up to my floor, got out and walked down the hallway before I let myself inside, leaning up against the doorframe and sighing. I felt relieved to be home, and immediately got to work with taking off my boots before going into my room to finish my homework.

I crashed around eleven-thirty, after my shower, and felt relieved that it was a Friday the next day, and that I had the day off from work. Fridays, at Hillwood Academy, were considered special for juniors and seniors, as you were not obligated to attend classes that day. In order to teach the sixteen through eighteen year olds more responsibility, the students themselves were permitted the day off, and many of them took advantage of that. However, most of the students who did, I noticed, were jocks who had to keep up a C-average in classes; without that C, they were benched until their grades were raised. The jocks figured that C's were therefore acceptable enough, and would miss as many school days as they possibly could. I thought the whole thing was pretty tragic, and wondered if they had an inability to apply themselves, at first, but soon I discovered that it was more than that, because they likely wanted that football scholarship most of all.

I woke up the next morning with my alarm, going through the motions of getting ready, not as much in a hurry as I was on other weekday mornings, as today I could assume 'Casual Friday' garb. Putting on my comfortable boots, jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and a trench coat that inexplicably still fit me after all these years, I made my way from the apartment and back downstairs. I checked the mail after saying good morning to Christina, but found nothing of importance or significance to speak of—not that I expected anything yet. Given that I'd sent Arnold's letter less than twelve hours ago, I likely wouldn't get a reply for another couple of days, and I was fully prepared to wait.

It was the last Friday before Christmas break, meaning that, once it hit midnight tonight, I was officially on break. Hillwood Academy had a slightly longer break than the other schools—it matched Hillwood Preparatory in that regard—and it was a relief to know that I had three weeks off as opposed to two. I met Phoebe at the front gates, as usual, and we spoke of this and that as we made our way to our first class of the day. We were supposed to be reading _Nineteen Eighty-Four_ by George Orwell, which I'd read the summer before freshman year as a dare from Gerald; I'd finished it weeks before Arnold had gone, so my connection to the book was slightly bittersweet.

Once class ended, I left the classroom with Phoebe to go to our advanced poetry hour, where, the week before we had to pick something from a hat and write a kind of poem about it. Phoebe had selected a limerick, while I'd opted to do a haiku on it, and I was very proud that my object had been a tree branch. I thought of the words I'd managed to string together to describe it as we walked down the hallway and towards class...

 _Brown and thick with bark_

 _It reaches out to people_

 _To always be there_

 _Covered with white snow_

 _When wintertime first arrives_

 _It thaws out with spring_

 _Out in a garden_

 _The leaves collect with the fall_

 _But the tree branch stays_

Phoebe made mention of her limerick and I listened attentively, and yet we were interrupted by the vibrations that sounded from my pocket.

"What is it?" Phoebe asked as I took out my phone.

"Olga," I replied, perplexed.

"Take it," Phoebe said, reaching her hand out. "If it's a long conversation, I can turn in your poem for you."

"Thanks," I reply, handing over the paper. "I'll try to be along quickly, but if I'm not, I'll send a text."

"No problem," Phoebe says brightly, continuing down the hallway, and soon she is out of sight.

Walking quickly, I find a deserted hallway nook and hastily answer the call from Olga, no matter what it is. "This better be good," I joke. "I'm a junior in high school with a job and a place of my own, who has places to be. What can I do you for, Olga?"

"Helga, this isn't time for jokes," she replied on the other end of the phone, and I detect sniffles in her voice, which is strained, obviously from attempting to keep calm for an extended period.

"Okay, I'm sorry," I say quickly, feeling awkward. "Tell me, then. What's going on? Is everyone okay?"

"No, everyone is _not_ okay," Olga replies, her voice shaking ever so slightly. "Eilis hasn't been eating and she's been tired and has had a fever for three days that won't go away," she said, her voice sounding desperate. "She's been so weak, Helga..."

"You took her to the hospital, didn't you?" I say, fighting to keep my voice calm, although it mimics her shakiness.

"Of course I did!" Olga fires back. "The doctors spent the last day or so running tests before the diagnosis was given to me twenty minutes ago."

"Okay," I said, trying and failing to stay calm as I envision my perfect little niece subjected to terrible doctor's tests, and yet I knew how much of a trooper she really was, despite everything. "What did they say?"

"Oh, Helga," Olga said brokenly, the sobs returning. "The doctors say that Eilis has leukemia..."

"No," I whisper, sinking down onto the available seat beside me, putting my head into my hands. "Oh, no, Olga..."

"I called Harrison and told him," she blubbered then.

"Olga..."

"I didn't know what else to do, Helga, and, despite everything, Harrison _is_ her father and has a right to know..."

I sighed. "And what happened?"

"Well, since Eilis and Osias are twins, they will most likely be a bone marrow match to one another," she said shakily. "I asked him to bring Osias to be tested to see if he was..."

"Olga," I said again.

"I know, I know—he refused! The bastard refused..." She said, her tone bitter. "He signed the damn divorce papers, but he refuses to allow me the one route that is likely guaranteed to save Eilis..."

"You're not a match, then?" I asked.

Olga shook her head. "No. No, the hospital out here has access to my medical records and I'm not a match."

I sighed, knowing that I had to ask. "Could I be a match?" I asked.

Olga stammered for a moment. "Helga, I couldn't ask you to..."

I rolled my shoulders then. "Yes, you can," I replied. "Look, I'm in school for a few more hours—"

There is a silence on the other end of the phone, almost as if Olga is grappling with herself for a moment. "I'm sorry, but I really need someone here at the hospital with me, Helga," Olga said quietly.

I nodded. "Of course. I'll email my teachers, letting them know there's a family emergency, and I'll leave notice at work," I tell her.

"I'll book your ticket," she said quietly.

"I have some money saved, Olga—"

"You need that money, Helga," Olga said, putting her big-sister voice on. "The ticket will be waiting for you at the airport. Just call your work, and make sure that you can get time off, and get your homework from your teachers. Then pack a bag and get to the airport."

I nodded. "Okay. I'll be there," I reply.

. . .

The plane touched down at LAX six hours later, after a nearly four-hour flight from Hillwood to Los Angeles. Olga had arranged for a car to pick me up to take me to the hospital, located thirty minutes from the airport. My driver was friendly enough but didn't pry, which was a good thing, as I didn't know what I would've said otherwise. When we arrived at the hospital, I tipped the driver, as Olga had already paid him, and walked inside, my suitcase rolling behind me. I found the oncology department without much trouble, and saw Olga sitting in one of the provided chairs, staring off into space.

"Olga," I said quietly.

Olga looked up, letting out a fresh sob and getting to her feet and running for me, throwing her arms around me. Her eyes were red, I noticed as she ran, and her grip was as tight as I'd ever experienced. She just held me for a long time, and I let her, feeling amazed that we were now nearly the same height, although she still had one inch on me at five-feet-nine.

"You'll need to do the match test," she whispered to me.

I nodded. "Anything if it can help Eilis, I'm here," I told her.

"The needle will go into your hip," she explained, rubbing her own hip, where I suspected the doctor had taken a sample of hers. "Then they'll take it out and put it into Eilis, if you're a match."

"And for right now?" I wanted to know.

"Just a cheek swab," she replied, nullifying my former theory about her hip. "The doctor should be out shortly to administer it."

True to her word, a doctor arrived with the equipment—which resembled a long Q-tip, on the end of a long and thin wooden stick—which was put into my mouth. It was then run along my skin for a moment, before it was extracted and the doctor pleasantly informed me that Olga and I would know soon. We then went to Eilis's room, where she would need to spend the night for the time being. Olga gave me her car keys, telling me to go back to her place for the night, and to bring her a chance of clothes in the morning. I told her that I would, kissing her and Eilis, who was already asleep, goodnight, and driving to her beautiful, Spanish-style home, which was eerily quiet in their absence.

I went into the guest bedroom that Olga had, and was pleased that it was still as clean as it was when she likely freshened it up after I'd left the last time. I took a shower and went into the kitchen, pleased to find sandwich essentials and made myself a quick one for my dinner, making sure not to leave a mess behind. Once I'd finished eating, I checked my online correspondence, finding that I'd managed to get a week off from work, for now, and that my teachers were very considerate about my sudden disappearance. I received a few assignments online—presumably ones I would have gotten during Christmas break—and looked them over. My mind was quickly swimming from the entire day, so I lay back on my bed, logging off my laptop and putting it aside.

Lying there in the darkness, I willed for sleep, and good news, to come.

I awoke the following morning around nine, and was pleased to find no anxious texts from Olga. Getting up, I readied myself, grabbing a few energy bars from the kitchen, before going into Olga's bedroom and grabbing a pair of jeans, a tank top, a cable-knit sweater, and her pair of caramel-colored Uggs, along with a fresh pair of socks. I also grabbed her deodorant, just in case, along with some hair ties in case she wanted to put her hair up. These things I loaded into her car, and drove back across town to the hospital, texting her on the way there that I was on my way back to be with her and Eilis.

Making my way into the hospital parking lot, I managed to find a space not far from the entrance and parked, before gathering the things I'd brought and made my way inside. I found Olga with Eilis, who was now awake, and relieved that I'd brought her a change of clothes. Olga said she was going into the en suite bathroom in Eilis's room, and that she was going to take a shower, while I sat with her, and I moved to do so.

"Mama didn't say you were coming," Eilis said quietly, her voice soft and eloquent as I sat beside her.

"Yes, well," I said, smiling at her, "Mama explained what was happening to Auntie Helga and she thought it was time for a visit."

"Mama told you what's wrong?" she asked.

I nodded. "Of course. Mama and Auntie Helga need to keep in touch about things like that, sweetheart."

Eilis blinked, absorbing that. "I'm sick," she said quietly.

I reached out and took her hand, which she clasped onto. "Yes, sweetheart, but don't worry. Mama and Auntie Helga are going to do everything that we can to help the doctors to make you well again."

Eilis nodded. "I'm happy you're here," she told me.

Olga finished her shower a little later, and immediately grabbed an energy bar when I offered it to her. She explained that Eilis had already had some plain steel-cut oats for breakfast from the cafeteria, which she seemed to enjoy, and Eilis confirmed this by nodding. I took an energy bar from the bag myself and chewed it thoughtfully, leaning back in my chair and listening to what Olga was saying, which involved what we were and weren't allowed to do.

Lunchtime arrived and Eilis had a grilled chicken breast, cut up on top of a salad, which, thankfully, she ate. Olga and I had steak sandwiches, and I could see Eilis looking over at our lunches more than once. I was shocked that, even with the doctor's orders, that Eilis could actually bring herself to eat like that, but forced the thought from my mind, as I knew she needed to get better and if that food helped, we all had to be encouraging.

Six o'clock came and the doctor from yesterday, whom Olga told me was named Dr. Irene Nussbaum, arrived shortly before Eilis was due to have her dinner. She came in with a smile, wearing her hair natural, her white teeth a brilliant contrast to her dark skin. "And how are you today, Miss Eilis?" she asked, her voice beautiful, with a rich, Caribbean accent.

"Fine, thank you, Rena," Eilis said, likely a nickname, or her own variation on how the doctor pronounced her name. "How are you?"

"I am fine, Miss Eilis, very fine," she replied, turning to look at me. "It is wonderful to see you again, Helga."

"Thank you, Dr. Nussbaum," I replied. "I'm sure Olga and I are waiting with great anticipation at the results."

"Yes, please, doctor," Olga said quickly.

Dr. Nussbaum smiled, turning back to Eilis. "Well, you're very lucky, Miss Eilis, because your Auntie Helga is a match. She can help you get well again."

"I'm a match?" I asked, looking from Olga, to Eilis, and finally back to Dr. Nussbaum in a moment of shock.

"A perfect match to your niece, and you are a suitable candidate for donation, because you don't drink or smoke. And even though you're a minor, we've overlooked that in this case because you've been given emancipation status. In the eyes of the law, you are an adult, and you can willingly donate the bone marrow on your own."

I nodded. "Okay," I reply.

Olga looks over at me. "Okay?" she asks.

I turn and give her a smile. "I'll do it. I'll donate bone marrow to help Eilis. I don't mind, Olga, really."

She smiled. "Thank you."

"You'll have to wait a few days," Dr. Nussbaum explains.

"Why?" I ask.

"You have to receive five-days' worth of injections to prepare your body for the donation," Dr. Nussbaum continues. "Don't worry—it's a fairly simple procedure, but we'll have to keep Eilis in the hospital for the time being."

"No problem," Olga replied.

"Well, I'll leave you three ladies to enjoy your dinner," she said, before turning her eyes towards mine. "You've done a good thing here, Helga Pataki," she tells me with a smile before leaving the room.

. . .

Monday was day two of my injections, and it wasn't nearly as bad as I anticipated it would be. I was pleased to be helping someone, especially someone from my family, and Eilis seemed so grateful for it. I wasn't sure if she completely understood what was happening—she wasn't even three and a half yet—but she knew I was helping her. That's what counted, right? I was potentially saving her life for a good five years or more, and I would continue to do so for the rest of my life, if that's what was necessary.

When I returned to Olga's house on Monday, I collected her mail and scanned through it briefly. Some of my mail had gone to her house, as I'd had Christina have it forwarded there. When I saw that I had a piece from Arnold, I felt my heart leap despite myself. As I walked into the house, making sure to warm up quickly, I opened his letter eagerly, wondering what he was going to say to me next.

 _Dear Helga,_

 _I'm so sorry that I neglected to take your finances into question—I just didn't think that you would be on your own like me. Your family is so close, yet unwilling to help, and mine is so far, willing to help whenever possible. It's unfair that we were born to two totally different families—family should always appreciate one another and love one another, and I'm sorry yours did apparently not._

 _Have you heard from Olga? Ever since she got married a few years ago, you spoke of her less and less. I think the last time she was mentioned was on our way to the airport, before our final goodbye. You mentioned that she was pregnant, and pretty far along, with a ring on her finger. You also mentioned that she hadn't come home, due to the fact that you believed that your family wouldn't have approved of her choice of husband. Heaven forbid what would've happened if you would one day marry me—your father would never forgive you for having football-headed children; he said so._

 _I know we'll be seventeen in a matter of months, and our senior year is just around the corner, and yet I've never felt so alone. Nobody can replace anybody from Hillwood, and although I've tried making friends—which is easy, due to all the classes I'm taking—I find I have nothing in common with anyone, other than our academic achievements or interests. So many of them grew up together, like the old gang, and there's that feeling of being on the outside looking in. As the last two major holidays of the year approach, and I know that, yet again, I cannot go home, I really consider my loneliness and wonder if all of this was worth it._

 _I'm starting to think it isn't. I'm starting to think that my dream of becoming an architect with their own firm could have been done at a slower pace. My dream was that, if we had to move for college, we would have done so together, not separately, and that we could have continued communication despite our respective schedules, no matter how conflicting they proved to be. The year we didn't speak was a torment, and I don't think I'll ever forgive myself for not attempting to reach out sooner._

 _However, your last words to me were, "And don't come back before you make something of yourself, Football Head." I guess, even now, I don't want to disappoint you. Even though I chose New York at fourteen, Helga, sixteen-year-old me thinks I chose wrong._

 _Your friend,_

 _Arnold Shortman_

"Did you?" I whisper to myself then, gazing at his words, essentially gripped there in my shaking hands. "Did you choose wrong, Football Head?" I ask, lowering my eyes to his name at the end of the letter, which I ran my fingers over then in a moment of pure, unadulterated nostalgia. "Did you choose wrong, Football Head, or was I the one that chose wrong?" I asked into the silence of Olga's home in Los Angeles, unsure what was right or wrong in the grand scheme of things.


	6. The Heart Wants What It Wants

Chapter Sixteen: The Heart Wants What It Wants

I returned home a few days after my procedure to save Eilis was complete, and, after giving Samantha the abridged version of what happened, was given a further week off from work. I was told that she and Greg's father had also had some cancer problems over the years, so the pair of them were inclined to be sympathetic towards me. I was touched at the holiday spirit shown to me, and did my best to occupy my time with recovering, as well as doing some online shopping.

One thing that I really wanted to get done over the holidays was cleaning up around the apartment, just to check and see if there was anything that I wouldn't mind donating or throwing away. There were plenty of things that I could give away—including assignments from over the years that I was less than proud of. I hesitated for a moment when I came upon the essay I wrote about Arnold, before I shoved it into the top drawer of my desk. I don't know why I decided to keep it; all I did know was that I had to. Dusting took up most of the rest of the day, as I wanted to make sure every surface was dust-free for the impending new year. I then made a plan to shampoo the rugs in the apartment, followed by a polishing of the wooden floors the following day.

I took a shower after dusting the place and ordered Chinese take-out for dinner, as I was too exhausted to even contemplate cooking. The box of pan-fried noodles with chicken that I held whilst watching the latest episode of _This Is Us_ shook ever so slightly in anticipation for the lead characters. Although, I later admitted to myself that it was likely from exhaustion. I hadn't slept much since coming back from Los Angeles, and I knew I had to keep up my strength and energy over time, as I would likely have to prepare myself for a follow-up donation. Even though I'd told Olga that I was prepared to do so, and I was going to hold myself to that promise, I could not get over the scar it had left upon my hip, and I wondered if it would last forever.

I turned off my light around ten-thirty, willing sleep to come, as my exhaustion had not abetted throughout the entire day. I stared up at the dark ceiling of my bedroom, all the while considering what it would be like to have someone sleeping next to me. I had closed myself off to having a relationship with anyone, because a small part of me—or, rather, a very large part—was hoping for a reconciliation with Arnold. I knew I couldn't think that way; I was sixteen going on seventeen, and I had to begin to consider big decisions about my future. I couldn't just wait around for Arnold to "come to his senses" and come back to me; he was planning for his own future, and I knew I had to do the same. Just sitting here hoping for something that would likely never happen was unhealthy, and I knew that something had to give—seriously.

I awoke at six the next morning, still tired but was faced with a body that was so tormented that sleep would not easily come. I forced myself out of bed, pulling on an old pair of jeans, a ratty T-shirt, athletic socks and sneakers, before setting to work on the shampooing of the carpets and the polishing of the floors. The process took a good three hours tops, and it was good to get out of my head through manual labor for a short period. I leaned up against the far wall of the living room after I'd finished, allowing myself to take a moment to appreciate all the work I'd done in the span of a chunk of a day.

Finally, I decided to take a much-deserved break for some breakfast, making myself some instant oatmeal and stirring in a generous amount of brown sugar, allowing a thick wedge of off-yellow butter to melt slowly upon its surface. I smiled, wondering what it would look like videotaped in real time as I stirred in what was last of the butter. I filled it in with some milk afterwards, and was pleased at the cooling sensation of the oats upon my tongue. I took the bowl into the living room carefully, not wanting to spill anything onto the freshly-shampooed carpet, and turned on the T.V., my DVR automatically playing a re-run of _Family Guy_ , and I was pleased to have something to laugh about so early in the day, to further take my mind off things.

Once I'd finished breakfast, I returned to the kitchen and put my bowl and spoon into the dishwasher, before turning around and scrubbing out the oatmeal pot and the wooden spoon I'd used. Placing these things into the drying rack once I'd finished, I washed my hands carefully before heading back into the living room to return the cleaning supplies to their closet beside the front door. I then decided to head back to my room, as I remembered that my closet was in slight disarray and needed to be organized accordingly, so as to meet the clean motif that the rest of the apartment currently had.

Stepping inside, I stared at my desk for a moment, remembering stuffing the essay about Arnold inside just the day before. Pushing the thought from my mind, I went over to my closet, opening the double doors and looking over my various work dresses and smoothing them methodically before looking at the closet floor. My summer shoes had been moved there—sandals and flip-flops in varying colors—and I knew I would likely move my abundance of winter boots and most of my sneakers inside there in the coming weeks. Seeing that the bottom and middle of the closet were in pretty good shape, I turned my attentions to the shelves above, which I hardly used, even though I was now tall enough to reach. I spotted a box center stage then, and, reaching up, pulled it down, and my eyes knitted together at the Sharpie pen writing on it.

 _Do Not Open Until Eighteenth Birthday._

Memories came flooding back then as I gripped the box, which now easily fit into my arms, due to the fact that I was now fully-grown, as it were. I reached down with one hand, supporting the box temporarily with my knee and with my occupied hand, and traced the lettering. Tears sprang to my eyes automatically then, as I ran my index finger over the words, remembering Arnold putting a lot of thought into this, and how I'd tried to escape it, but Miles and Stella had not let me. Even though there had been some resentment on my end after it had been presented to me, I knew then that, ultimately, I would want to see what lay within, so as to fully understand everything as a whole.

I returned the box to its former position on the shelf, patting it in a moment of affection before shutting my closet doors again. Crossing the room, I pulled out the chair of my desk and made a grab for a piece of stationary and my pen, knowing that I had to say something. A week of silence was unacceptable, I knew that, and while I wanted so much to be honest with him—to let him know what was truly happening on my end—I couldn't.

Arnold was such a good guy that I knew there was a possibility that he would see the recent events as a cry for help. I couldn't have him drop everything—or at least mention the possibility of it—to run back home to Hillwood to be by my side. I knew he would see it as his supporting me, but I couldn't even let him have the option of doing so. I'd made the decision to stand on my own, and I knew that, once that point was made clear, we could continue speaking in this manner of falsehoods, where everything worked out and everyone got the happily ever after they deserved.

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _I don't want you to ever tell me that you regret your decision of moving to New York, or that you don't want to disappoint me. You should have moved to New York for you, and only for you, not because of your parents' expectations or risking not making me happy. You know as well as I do that I miss you and that I wish every day that you were back, but Dr. Bliss told me that I had to learn to be less selfish in my life and if that meant letting you go, I could do that._

 _I was cleaning up in the apartment today—it's my New Year's resolution to clean my place out more than ever before—and found a box from our fourth to seventh grade years. I think, once our trip from San Lorenzo ended, those were some of the happiest years of my life. From ages ten to twelve, I was truly happy, because I had you and life didn't seem as bleak as it truly was. I actually kept one of your blue hats; I think its probably only big enough for a cat or small dog to wear now. I also found some old assignments from Simmons classes, plus some poetry work that I never let you see, because even it was too embarrassing._

 _There was actually something inside that said, "Do Not Open Until Eighteenth Birthday", and its in your fourteen-year-old handwriting. What have you done, Arnold Shortman, and why do I have to wait until I'm eighteen? Are there just some things in life that I'll never understand? And why do I have to wait another year and eight months to do it? You're still testing me, Football Head; on the opposite end of the country, and you're testing me._

 _I remember a session I had with Dr. Bliss, that first Christmas we were together, and I was telling her all about the present I got you that year. I don't think I even told her what it was... Do you remember what I got you? It was a sweater that I knitted myself, made deliberately large so that you could wear it for years. I remember you wore it the day you left, and you didn't have to roll up the sleeves anymore—it was comical to me. Do you still have the sweater, or did it finally end up in the rag bag? If you still have it, I want to know—did you ever find the secret compartment on the inside? If you haven't, then you have a surprise coming, just in time for the holidays._

 _I also got you another surprise for Christmas—one where I had to give up the gift I wanted the most, but I knew it would ensure your happiness, so I did. You don't need to know what it was; just know that it was done in good faith. You might say I was a guardian angel to you that Christmas. All I know is, at the end of the day, it was worth it to make you happy._

 _That's all I ever wanted for you was to be happy; I knew that if you stayed in Hillwood, just for me, that you could have come to resent me, and I didn't want that. I didn't want you to give up your dreams for me, and besides, we were fourteen. There was no way to know if what we had was the long-lasting love that people want to die for. I don't want to die, Arnold—not yet. And when I do die, I know that I'll have a different surname, because I don't want to be attached to the Pataki family forever. I mean, who knows? Maybe we'll share a surname one day, but once that bridge is crossed, there's no going back._

 _Your friend,_

 _Helga Pataki_

. . .

School resumed the first week of January and I was pleased to return to the swing of my academic and professional life. My hours were cut with the middle of the winter season in preparation for longer hours come spring, but I'd managed to retain a strict budget on Christmas, so I knew that I'd be fine. Midterms were coming up for junior year, and as Phoebe and I prepared to study for them, I received another letter from Arnold. This letter I pocketed and forgot about for a week before I managed to open it and read it, and I found that I didn't even mind that Phoebe peered at it over my shoulder.

"He's quite eloquent when he wants to be, isn't he?" she asked.

I turned briefly to her. "Yes," I replied. "Yes, he is."

 _Dear Helga,_

 _As soon as I opened your letter, I went to the closet where the sweater was hanging and looked it over. Originally not finding anything, I became convinced that you were playing tricks on me and hung it back up, although what I initially intended to do was throw it across the room. However, I finally began approaching the situation like you would have, by going outside the box—or, rather, the sweater—and searched for the surprise on the inside-out layer. I never noticed before how you made the bottom deliberately thicker, and as I ran my hand along it, I found I detected something hard beneath the fabric, and something edged further down, and something curved even further. I don't know how I missed these, but then I realized—after slicing it—that you put cotton inside. I found your gifts to me, and they cheered me up immensely just before the holidays, and I can't thank you enough for each and every one of them._

 _The first thing I pulled out from that piece of cotton heaven was a commemorative coin you and I got, four weeks before I left, and two weeks before we found out I won the contest in New York. I remember you saying you'd get one as a joke, and then when I saw that picture of us from The Tunnel of Love, it brought back so many memories. That was our penultimate kiss before I left; that was the week before you got sick and then when you were recovered, I got news about my moving to New York. I remember the look of devastation on your face that you tried so hard to hide, and I didn't call attention to it because I was stupid and selfish and no matter how many times I say, 'I'm sorry', I know I can never truly be forgiven. I remember me begging you to kiss me at the airport, and you said that it was a goodbye kiss and then you kissed me and left me at airport security, and, even now, I cannot blame you._

 _The second thing I pulled out was a small photograph taken from a polaroid camera from a party at Rhonda's house to celebrate our safe homecoming from San Lorenzo. You looked so happy to be sitting with me on their poorly-pattered couch, and I remember how much simpler things were back then. You and I were just getting to know the other sides of each other, and we were getting along really well. Nobody was giving us a hard time, funnily enough, and I remember Rhonda running around the party, snapping photos like she usually did, except this time with an old disposable camera. I think she said something like, 'It's so old that it's new and, therefore, it's in!' I'll never fully understand Rhonda's philosophy when it came to pop culture, but I know I'll never forget the moment when I knew the camera was going to flash, and me leaning in and kissing your cheek, your face caught between happiness and shock._

 _The final thing I pulled out brought every memory in the book back, because I know you had this for a long time, and how freely you sacrificed it in San Lorenzo, that it can't be right for me to keep it. Its glass was still intact but, of course, the picture was still shredded. I never did ask you how that happened—did a stray dog remove the glass and get to it? I'm sure, at the time, you felt justified in tearing it up, and I know it was a long time ago because I remember you handing it over after you'd torn it. Your locket saved my parents' lives, Helga, and brought you through all those years of pain when I was too silly to notice that you were in love with me._

 _I know even you don't like a root canal, Helga, but somehow, after all this time, you may prefer me to one just a little. Even after all we've been through, I know that this can't be the end for us, can it? With you pining away for so long, and with me taking forever to figure myself out, I know that it wasn't easy, but it was saving the lives of others that brought us together, and now, despite the fact that the picture is, I know I'm not yet fully prepared for us to be torn apart._

 _Your friend,_

 _Arnold Shortman_

"You miss him," Phoebe said quietly, her tone not accusing, as I folded up the letter and returned it to my pocket; I retrieve the locket next, which I hang around my neck.

I lowered my eyes, fingering my locket slightly as I looked back to the outline of our midterm poetry assignment. "Oh, I don't know about that Phoebe..."

"Don't try to hide it," she replied in the same tone. "I'm your best friend, Helga—I know feelings of want when I see them."

I rolled my shoulders, attempting to focus on the requirements for the midterm and wondered what mine would ultimately be on. "Well, tell me, then... What about you and Gerald?" I want to know.

Phoebe lowers her eyes then, and I look up in time to catch her embarrassment. "I don't know what you're talking about, Helga."

I sighed. "I'm not judging you, Phoebe, but Gerald does seem like he's really sorry about everything."

"About his betrayal of you and Arnold, or his lying to me about it?" she asks, her tone stiff.

I patted her shoulder. "All of it," I reply.

She looks up at me. "Have you forgiven him?"

I pick at the corner of the midterm directions, biting my lip. "I can't honestly say that, had you and Gerald broken up, I would've acted differently," I replied. "I mean, Gerald and I are friends, but his loyalty was to Arnold, and I respect that loyalty, Phoebe. Best friends have this undisputed bond that should not be broken, under any circumstances. Although I was hurt for a long time..." I shrug. "I knew I had to forgive Gerald in order to move on with my life."

Phoebe sighs. "I do... Miss him, I mean," she tells me quietly. "He was the first and only guy I ever loved. I mean, I _tried_ to move on, you know that..."

I nodded, remembering the typical science nerd—Reese Chadwick—that Phoebe had dated for a few weeks over the last summer, but it ultimately hadn't worked out, as there was no chemistry between them, ironically. "Well, maybe you could talk to him somehow."

"I don't know if I'm ready..."

"I didn't know I was ready to talk to Arnold again until after I threw that first letter into the mailbox outside my apartment," I replied simply. "All I know is, I wouldn't take it back—any of it."

"Your relationship before he left, or the letters?"

"Both," I reply, turning my gaze back to the directions of the midterms. "I know that, in order for me to heal completely, I had to let the one person back into my life that hurt me to no end. And I'm happy I did it, because we're resolving issues that I never thought we had."

"Have you told him yet?" she asks.

I look up at her again. "Told him what?"

"That Columbia originally wanted you, but picked him instead after you convinced them to do so?"

I shake my head. "No," I reply. "No, he doesn't know, and I have no idea if I'll ever have the courage to tell him the truth."

"Couldn't hurt," Phoebe put in.

I laughed. "Yeah, it could," I tell her.

"Have you thought about it?"

"Telling him?"

"Yes."

"Every waking moment when I'm not working or studying," I reply.

"What are you afraid of?"

"Honestly?" I ask. "That he'll hate me. That he'll never want to talk to me again. I guess... I guess the biggest fear is..."

"What?"

"That he'll stop loving me," I say quietly, lowering my eyes again and leaning back against the bench we were sitting on in the cool, mid-winter air. "I know those are all 'what-ifs', and I'll drive myself crazy thinking about every possible scenario until it's done, but I can't help it."

"Try to help it," Phoebe says gently.

"If only it were that simple," I reply.

. . .

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _It was very sweet of you to send me my locket back, along with the picture of us at Rhonda's party when we got back from San Lorenzo—the first time. I was just remembering our second trip the other day, when we went for a romantic walk near the stone bridge. I remember it like it was yesterday, when you telling me that you were in it for the long run, and I had to contain myself from utterly swooning and making a fool of myself. You'll remember as well as I do that I failed in the most miserable fashion there was, but you never called me on it. Perhaps you liked me when I was like that, because I was in a vulnerable position, so different from my tough exterior._

 _How was your Christmas? Again, I apologize for not having the funding to head out there myself. The price of stamps has gone down with the new year, however, and the very notion that I can afford to send you letters as my next birthday approaches makes me feel better. I can't believe I'll be seventeen-years-old, and one year closer to opening that mysterious folder-like package from you. As time continues, I begin to wonder who will make the massive leap—I can't ask you to give up your dreams, Football Head. Ever._

 _I do hope they're not working you too terribly hard; I realize it is an intensive program and I'm sure you've got all kinds of projects to do. Let me guess—you did lectures of scale models the first week, right? I virtually have no idea what you're up to, other than some of the articles I've read and videos (mainly documentaries) I've seen on the subject. I couldn't just let you go to New York and learn about something I know next to nothing about without getting into it myself. I've always been like that—throwing myself into things you're interested in or taking part in, all to get closer to you. Now, while you're a million miles away, I guess I'm still fully unprepared for the impact of letting you go._

 _You'd be correct—on me not liking a root canal; it was the best analogy I could come up with. At that moment, all I could think of was getting my locket back and, in so doing, nearly shut myself off to the entire situation. Had I just kept my mouth shut and let you speak fully—which I ultimately did—I would have realized what you were doing. I suppose I'd never prepared myself for you actually returning my feelings, so the notion that you'd prepared yourself to do so was a complete eye-opener for me. I'll never forget our times together, Arnold, and let me put your fears to rest—I didn't want them to end how they did, nor do I wish they had ended at all._

 _Your friend,_

 _Helga Pataki_

I walked through the rest of January as if I was beneath a fog, wondering what would happen a month from now, when I would only have another year to see whatever it was in my closet. I always joked with myself that Arnold had convinced Miles and Stella to hide a tiny camera in there, and would perhaps bust me for not honoring a promise he'd asked me to keep when we were fourteen. And now, as my seventeenth birthday was on the horizon, all I could think about was attempting to break the rules.

At work with Samantha in the last week of January, Greg was, as usual, lurking in the back in his office, and we were having yet another slow day. I bussed my third table that day—married couple in their sixties; he drank coffee black, she had decaf with milk and sugar; he ordered the country fried steak with mashed potatoes and corn; she ordered the lasagna; they split a small stack of blueberry pancakes with whipped cream for dessert. They were both still in pretty good shape, and looked a good decade younger than they really were. It was the tone of their conversation that had me guessing their ages, however, although I knew it would have been rude to ask, so I did not. They talked about Woodstock, and even though they likely would have been small children when the event happened, it seemed to make a big impression on them.

"They're sweet," I told Samantha after they'd gone.

Samantha nodded. "Tony and Maggie Davies," she said with a smile. "Married for forty-six years, and happy as can be."

"You must know them well," I reply.

Samantha smiled. "They used to come in more often—she was a schoolteacher, he was a principal. They met when they were training."

"He must be older," I guess.

"A few years—five or six, I think."

"Any kids?" I ask.

"Four—Katie, Roxanne, Kayla, and their youngest, Tony Jr.," Samantha explained as she handed me a bottle of cleaning solution, which I returned to the table and began rubbing it down.

"They seem happy."

Samantha let out a small laugh then. "Yeah, they do. I remember when my dad owned this place, they used to come in all the time...bring their kids..." She got a wistful look upon her face then, which I caught.

"What happened?"

Samantha sighed, looking as if she really didn't want to talk about it, but the words escaped her lips anyhow, due to her need to speak to someone. "Tony was my first boyfriend—their son, Tony. Tony Jr."

I raise my eyebrows; I'd seen Tony and Maggie's children enough times from their phones, and was shocked. "Really?" I ask.

Samantha nodded again. "Yeah. We got together right before high school, and stayed together before I started medical school."

"What happened?" I want to know.

She raised her eyes to mine. "He thought I should've been done with school," she tells me simply. "He said he wanted a wife that worked flexible hours, so that she could be home to look after the kids and have dinner on the table by the time he got home from work."

"Are you kidding me?" I demand, stopping my cleaning regimen.

She shakes her head. "Unfortunately not," she says, and I quickly move to continue cleaning the table in front of me. "Things hit a wall when I got pregnant and he asked me to marry him..."

"What did you do?"

"What I had to," she replied, looking away but still managing to grab ahold of the cleaning solution and return it into the cubbies of her desk. "Needless to say, I broke up with him before he could find out anything."

"Did you fear for your safety?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "No. No, I could take care of myself. I mean, he didn't beat me or anything like that," she tells me, and I believe her immediately, due to the conviction in her voice. "He was snippy with his requests, but we never got into violent, threatening arguments or anything..."

I nodded. "Well, now hopefully you can move on..."

Samantha's eyes locked with mine, cutting me off, green meeting black, a lifetime of sadness meeting a lifetime of determination. "Do we ever truly move on from anything Helga?" she asks me.

I sighed, crossing my arms, and steadying myself against the wall opposite from her hostess desk. "You've got me there," I reply.

Samantha nods at that. "How's Arnold?"

I shake my head. "I don't know. It's his turn to write, but I haven't heard anything from him recently..."

"Write him again," Samantha tells me with a grin.

I contemplate that then. "Couldn't hurt," I reply.

Samantha checks her watch. "Take a break—do it now. Don't wait until you're thirty-three, divorced, with two kids to consider your first love, and look back on it with regret. Grab it up while you still have time."

"I'm not the only one with time, Samantha," I tell her as I move towards the staff lounge behind the kitchen. "You've still got time, too."

She smiles sadly then. "Some more than others," she replies.

I know there is something in her statement, but I also don't want to push her, and move back towards the kitchens towards the staff lounge. I order the spaghetti bolognese for my dinner, thanking the chef when it is presented to me and make my way towards the staff lounge. Sitting down, fork in hand, I stab an abundance of noodles before turning to my locker and getting out my backpack. I scribble a first draft of the letter onto a sheet of notebook paper—really not prepared at all for any of this—but love the short and sweetness of the anecdote that I cannot help but want to sent it for what it is.

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _I remember the surprise party I threw you when you turned thirteen could have definitely gone better. Rhonda wanted to take over the planning entirely, Harold wanted to plan the menu based on his tastes, and Stinky wouldn't leave me alone to plan it. Thankfully, I knew that Gerald and Phoebe would be good at assisting me —Gerald because he knows you so well and Phoebe because she's the best one at organizing things in class._

 _But, of course, Rhonda tried to establish her own point of view on the celebration, Harold tried to eat everything, and Stinky still tried to dance with me, even though it was made abundantly clear that you and I were a couple. It certainly helped that your mom and dad were there, at your second birthday you had since they returned to Hillwood, and I know it meant a lot to you. I just hope you found my personally stitched cap I made for you with A + H stitched inside made the ultimate finale of the day better._

 _I had never seen you smiling more that day since we'd woken up your parents in San Lorenzo—I never thought anything would make you so happy. Of course, when you opened your acceptance letter to the competition, I knew that that day would soon outrank your first birthday party as a teenager. How could it not? Your dreams were finally coming true, and nothing and nobody should have ever attempted to stand in your way._

 _I know it was your turn to send a letter, Football Head, but I was honestly just thinking of your birthday and I had to write it down. It started out as a milestone essay for class, and then suddenly it turned into a letter to you. Everything always turns into you, Arnold, just like those ink blots I had to look at during sessions with Dr. Bliss. Even word association; whenever someone mentions sports, I go directly to football and then it's all over._

 _But not us. I think you've made that abundantly clear._

 _Your friend,_

 _Helga Pataki_

I left work that night at the appointed hour, hopping onto the bus and gripping my borrowed envelope and stamp from Samantha. I knew I'd have to figure out a way to make it up to her—for everything, really. She had become like a surrogate parent to me rather quickly, and I could see why she was such close friends with Stella after so little time.

 _So little time_.

I turned that phrase over and over in my head, as well as Samantha's rather odd statement of, _Some more than others_ , when it came to the passage of time and how much individuals had. I wondered then if she wanted to tell me something, but I knew it would be impolite to pry into her personal life overtly. Stepping off the bus at my stop, I popped the letter inside the mailbox outside my apartment building before I went inside.

I thought of the concept of time on my own that night, as I went through the physical motions of getting ready for bed. The shower helped in easing my nerves, and I hoped that my nerves would ultimately be eased in more ways than one. I thought about Samantha's failed love affair with Tony, and wondered if there was more to the story than that. I wondered how someone could be together for so long and lose sight of ground they'd covered—including hopes and dreams. Samantha was a smart woman, and I wondered then if love was truly blind.

I climbed into bed after wrestling with my thoughts—and my homework—for over an hour, lying back and staring at the ceiling. My clock on my phone said eleven-thirty, so I would be getting a typical amount of sleep needed for a fully-functioning adult, but it was then that I realized something. The basic foundation of adulthood was a childhood, which I'd been deprived of—a typical one, anyway. I found myself wondering then, if circumstances had been different, then perhaps I myself would be different.

Would I have reached out to Arnold?

Would I have ever gotten emancipation status?

Would I have ever ultimately won Arnold over?

Would I have had the courage to sacrifice my locket to save Miles and Stella from the sleeping sickness?

Would I have won us the trip to San Lorenzo?

Would I have even fallen for Arnold in the first place?

Would my parents openly favor Olga, as they so often did?

The passage of time went backwards in my mind then, as I considered all the possibilities of what could have happened. Maybe if I had had a typical childhood, I would have been nicer, and not as disillusioned with the outside world. Maybe then Arnold would've fallen for me sooner...or maybe he would have seen me as just a friend. Not really a worthy conquest—but a friend; just a friend, and then maybe Lila would've fallen for him.

I shove the thought from my mind, before forcing myself to turn over and attempt to fall asleep.


	7. The Agent of Change

Chapter Seventeen: The Agent of Change

 _Dear Helga,_

 _Of course I don't mind if you send me an extra letter now and again—if you can afford the postage. I looked up the benefits of a strictly instant noodles or ramen diet and found that, due to the high sodium content, it's very unhealthy. I don't want you hurting yourself as a means of communicating with me. I'm sure Mom and Dad wouldn't mind if you used the phone during your weekly visits to the boarding house, although I know you're too proud to ask. That's one of the things I always loved about you, Helga—your pride. While it was there, you steadfastly remained behind it and never questioned your judgements. It was never an unattractive quality, I assure you._

 _Contrary to your opinion on the matter, I actually_ did _enjoy my thirteenth birthday surprise party. I remember my mom saying something like, "That girl must love you, Arnold, if she went to all this trouble..." All I remember thinking was, "Mom, if you only knew..." If I wasn't assured of it previously, I knew it for a fact when you gathered up my favorite things—and all my favorite people—in the boarding house to celebrate my birthday and entrance into teenhood. I know you expressed some concerns to Phoebe that, when I became a teenager, that I would somehow want to end my relationship with you because you were still twelve. I never wanted to end my relationship with you, Helga. Ever._

 _I may have not smiled the same way as I did when my parents woke up in San Lorenzo, or when I first discovered the surprise party. I will tell you this—and the pilot, co-pilot, and flight attendants can attest to it—that I never cried more than I did on the flight to New York. I think they actually wanted to turn the plane around, it got so terrible. From the moment you left me there at security, all I wanted to do was run after you and beg your forgiveness for following my dreams, the dreams of a fourteen-year-old boy. Little did I know that those dreams would change and become new ones. I guess I never considered the fact that personal dreams could ever supersede professional ones._

 _You want to know where I think it truly all began for me? I can't believe I never told you this... It was when the entire town flooded, and my grandpa had to come and save us in his boat. You offered your hand to Mr. Simmons as we pulled him back to safety with that makeshift rope. I remembered thinking how brave you were to do that, and I also remembered that I thought I should have stepped in to help you pull him up. You misjudged the distance and that was when you went flying head-first into the water. All I remembered was thinking, "Why didn't I help her when I got the chance?" and then I was screaming in fear because I thought you were gone forever, and you screamed my name. I remember being so relieved when you finally got back to safety._

 _As the month of separation between us stretched into years, all I can remember thinking is back to the fourth grade, back before you ever said anything, and back before I even considered that it was you. It was always you, Helga, I know that now, and it will always be you. I remember I knew it when we had to kiss in the Christmas play, and how even everyone's parents knew that we were a couple. I mean, you can't fake chemistry like that, can you? I guess a well-trained actor could, sure, but I know all those times you kissed me over the years, it couldn't have been a case of good acting, could it? You weren't seriously going to barf when we played Romeo and Juliet?_

 _Something tells me that it was all part of the game..._

 _This is no longer a game, Helga—we're growing up, and it's time to make the make it or break it choices in our lives. I just hope the ones we make turn out to be the right ones. Not the right ones for society, or for our families and what they want for us—the right choices for us, at any given time, that we may make, for our own greater good._

 _Your friend,_

 _Arnold Shortman_

 _No longer a game_ , _no longer a game_ —the thought rang true in my mind as I made my way down the block towards school. There were still various smatterings of snow along the wet sidewalks, and I was careful not to slip upon it as I crossed the street towards the school grounds. I spotted Phoebe again that morning, and even though we matched each other's pace, the notion that it wasn't going to be a pre-class conversation morning unfazed us both entirely. When we reached the door, I opened it and allowed her to step inside first and she did, and as we wade through the sea of people around us, the notion that I was feeling more and more alone as the weeks continued did nothing to ease the situation.

Phoebe and I sat at our assigned, two-person desk in the second row of the classroom by the window, and I found myself gazing out at the pearl-gray overcast sky, nibbling my bottom lip, the notion that the rest of the school year would likely be boring eased through my mind. I was tired of the teachers wanting to go on about their personal lives, and the notion that I knew every assignment before it was even placed in front of me aggravated me to no end. Rolling my shoulders, I turned my gaze to our teacher automatically, barely functioning as it was, and found myself disappointed with this institution of learning as a whole, especially as time went on.

 _Advancement my ass_ , I thought to myself.

I spent the next hour attempting not to pull hair from my scalp, I left class, Phoebe at my side, and walked down the hallway towards the next one. Perching at my desk, I dug into my binder for my assignment from the night before, a piece of stationary peeking out just below it. I found I was smiling for the first time that day, knowing that I would ultimately have to send this letter as well back to Arnold.

 _Tag, you're it, Helga_ , I mused.

. . .

 _I slip from the wings and into the audience, where other cast members are told to sit and watch the production, whilst taking notes, only coming onstage when needed. I slip through the darkened theater into my seat next to Arnold, who is waiting for his cue to enter. Gerald, as Scrooge himself, must wait in the wings, while Phoebe, as one of the ghosts, sits on my other side to wait for her cue._

 _Arnold leans over in the dark then, and I feel my skin automatically prickle at the sense that he is close to me, under cover of darkness. "I love the costume," he whispers to me. "I don't care what people of the day said—that the poor dressed plainly... You make it look amazing."_

" _Ohhh!" I said for the second time that day, and force myself to snap out of it, just as Arnold takes my hand. "You're such a Football Head," I mutter, leaning close to him in the dark and kissing him on the cheek._

 _We watch as the narrator steps out on Mr. Simmons's demand and recounts what everyone is about to see, almost as if nobody in Hillwood has ever seen or heard of A Christmas Carol before. Doing my best not to roll my eyes at Eugene's rather enthusiastic delivery of a tragic beginning, Arnold, Phoebe, and I watch as Gerald enters the stage and trudges along. Honestly, without the fake snow, it makes the whole experience even more daunting._

 _Arnold squeezes my hand as he gets to his feet, running up the stairs towards the wings, when the set flips around and Gerald is suddenly standing in the business of Ebenezer Scrooge, where Arnold does his best to look scrawny, underpaid, and underfed as he tries his best to wish Gerald a 'Merry Christmas'. It doesn't work out very well, and Gerald is crochety in his delivery of making Arnold feel rather insignificant at having any kind of holiday spirit._

" _I like that Gerald got this role," Phoebe whispers to me._

" _Why?" I ask her._

" _Not about a race thing," she says quickly, almost as if she would even consider that that was even on my mind. "It's wonderful to see how strong he can be. I wasn't along for the ride in San Lorenzo the first time around, so it's not like I really got to see him in action..."_

" _I like that Arnold got to be Bob Cratchit," I reply, "because I think it's nice to see him be a little vulnerable once in a while..."_

 _Phoebe laughed. "Only you would say so, Helga."_

. . .

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _Just a few more weeks until the big 1-7. It's so hard to believe that the holidays are over, and I no longer feel the need to feel pathetic during New Year's Eve. I know that Valentine's Day will be harder, as it comes with the territory, but if I convince myself that it's just a simple greeting-card holiday, it might not matter so much. I remember being so jealous over the years—first of Ruth, then Cecile, then Lila—and how much I wanted you to notice me. Funny how things work out sometimes, and how much someone can care for another._

 _I remember when Mr. Simmons had to yell at us for prolonging the kiss of_ A Christmas Carol _—I guess it was cute when we were nine and doing_ Romeo and Juliet— _but I guess being twelve and thirteen respectively the second time around, it wasn't funny. I thought it was amusing when they extended the show for the final week before the holidays really set in. The whole controversy of the then-presidents' decree of not saying 'Happy Holidays' had died down, but was not forgotten. I know you know that it was a sham—the whole entire business with the election—but we all got through it, and were better and stronger people because of it. If we lived through that, we can live through anything._

 _Rush hour at the diner is still complicated—constantly running around and taking orders from people who should order salads instead of fries. Ever since I lost Dr. Bliss—and everything else, it seems—I find it much harder to keep a handle on being polite. However, choosing my battles has worked wonders, and I know that if I keep my mouth shut, I'll still have a job, and be able to pay rent and electric and for groceries. It's hard, being on my own like this, but I know that, ultimately, it was the best thing for me to do._

 _Dr. Bliss told me that I would have to choose the best thing for me eventually, and I know that, at the time, I did. Maybe it was the best thing for me at the time, but it certainly was not the best for the long-term. Maybe someday I will find my best thing, but until then, I do know that I take solace in this little method of communication we have going for ourselves, and knowing that there's a light at the end of the tunnel, after all this, it becomes worth it._

 _Your friend,_

 _Helga Pataki_

Immediately upon getting out of school, I put my now-finished letter to Arnold into the mailbox and hopped onto my bus. I managed to find a seat by a window and popped my earbuds into their proper place. I checked the time and saw that I was right on schedule, and as the bus dropped me off at work, I went in through the back as always and deposited my things into my locker and my coat onto its peg. I pinned my nametag in place and headed out, washing my hands in the kitchen sink and out into the restaurant.

As I arrived out on the floor at work later that afternoon, Samantha informed me that we were likely going to be experiencing yet another dinner rush, something that always happened after the holidays. I remembered Samantha's stories about the sudden influx of customers her family's restaurant experienced in the weeks following Christmas and New Year's, and she had never attempted to figure out why, simply accepting what was. I took the cleaning supplies she offered to me to wipe down a recently departed customer's mess, and we made small talk about my schoolwork and her children.

"Anything new with Arnold?" she asked after a small lull which frequently seemed to happen mid-way through our conversations.

I hesitate for a moment before wiping down the table again—always a sure-fire way to prolong your allotted answer time. "Why do you ask?" I say, although the question falls flat without the necessary inflection. "It was my turn to write him, anyhow..."

Samantha inclines her head at that. "Did you write to him, then?" she wants to know, genuinely curious.

I nodded. "Yes. Just dropped off the letter before I came." I nip at my bottom lip then in an effort to distract myself, methodically wiping down the table a third time, not knowing when this whole process of attempting to survive would end. "I mean, there's not much to know about me at this point..."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, I mean, Arnold's high-flying in New York, and I'm here...in Hillwood," I say, and realize then that I've wiped down the table too many times to count, so I wring out the rag above the small bucket beside me. "He's conquering his dream, as it were, and I'm just..."

"Are you feeling stuck?" Samantha asked, her voice quiet.

I turned and looked over at her. "Yeah, I guess I am."

She pursed her lips. "Ever contemplate shaking things up a bit?"

I laugh at that, grabbing the dry rag and making the table shine with the lemony solution so that the tables wouldn't smell like repetitive dirty water. "Well, I mean, I got emancipation status and moved into my own place at sixteen," I say softly, shrugging my shoulders. "I think that's about as much I can take in the span of one school year, let alone calendar year..."

"You'll be seventeen in a few weeks," Samantha puts in.

I scoff then, growing wary of the whole aging thing. "Don't remind me," I tell her with a rueful smile.

"Hey, it beats thirty-three," Samantha said with that lopsided grin of hers. "What are you going to do to celebrate?"

I shrug my shoulders. "I'm probably scheduled that day anyway..."

Samantha laughs. "You know I make up the schedules, Helga. It's on a Thursday, a Thursday where you don't have school, the same as the Friday afterwards. I don't know," she says, shrugging a little. "I mean, maybe you could jet off somewhere—a somewhere like New York."

I shake my head. "I can afford it, sure, but—"

"Don't you want to see Arnold?"

I sighed, gathering up the cleaning supplies and returning them to Samantha, who places them beneath her desk. "It's not that simple..."

"Are you over him?" she asks.

"Samantha!" calls a voice from the back, and she and I are greeted with the appearance of our boss and her older brother, Greg. Greg was a tall drink of water, hovering just over six-feet, with dark hair and his sister's green eyes. He smiled in a curt manner, though, which would make anyone of his stature look as imposing as they come. "There's a minor discrepancy in the books in the back," he goes on, his lips curling into an unattractive sneer. "Think you could maybe go over them with me?"

Samantha sighs. "Sure, Greg."

"Helga, fill in for Samantha," he said, turning on his high-class, patent leather shoes before heading back towards his office.

"Hopefully, it won't be too long," Samantha whispers, squeezing my hand briefly and making her way out from behind the desk to follow Greg.

My eyes follow Samantha as she walks back, and I notice then that the various cooks give her sympathetic expressions. Most of the cooks were men in their forties or older, and I realized then that it was possible that some of them knew Samantha from the time she was a child. As I leaned up against the hostess desk, I wondered then if Greg was simply born with this sense of entitlement he had with each step he took, or if it had been learned behavior from watching his father run the place all those years ago.

Turning around, I saw that the last of the sun was setting in the sky; another sun-filled day had come and gone. I felt a sense of unease wash over me then, but I could not place its roots, and wondered where it had come from. It started to rain outside, and I wondered then if it would wash away what was left of the clumps of snow along the various sidewalks throughout town. I knew that some people viewed snow as a romantic thing; I, however, did not. I much preferred the sun, and what the heat meant to me, as the sun had shone when Arnold and I realized the depths of our feelings for one another.

As the sun sank deeper into the horizon, reflecting on the edge of the water beyond, I found myself wondering if all relationships have a sunrise and sunset period within them. Maybe Arnold's and my relationship was supposed to set; I knew it wasn't going to be total perfection, but relationships had to be better than all this. And yet, they weren't all they were cracked up to be—relationships, that is—and maybe I was going about it in the wrong way.

Maybe it was always supposed to be like this. Maybe we were too different to sustain anything long-term. Maybe, at long last, the fragments of our teenage lives could not come back together. And then, for the first time, as I considered a life beyond high school, I found that it did not necessarily have to have Arnold within it, and I found that such thoughts scared me. It was at times like this that I needed someone like Dr. Bliss to be there for me, and the notion that she was truly gone still hit me like a raw blade. Dashing the tears from my eyes as Samantha returned from the back, I plastered on a smile, which I knew would have to remain there, at least in some situations, for the rest of my life.

. . .

I was due to turn seventeen in the final week of March, and yet I didn't feel like celebrating such a day very much. Of course, I had Phoebe—that was a given, with her as my best friend—and yet, I didn't want to impose. She bought me a vintage camera for my birthday, and had had it fully restored for my use. I was touched by such a gift, when I received it during the week of my birthday, and thanked her more than once in a profuse manner. Miles and Stella bought me a San Lorenzo pottery piece which they'd found at a flea market, in the shape of a cat, and I found myself in love with it, placing it on a high shelf in my apartment.

Thinking that it was now or never, I began looking into flights to New York at the start of the week, yet I didn't bombard anyone with my possible plans. I didn't want to be talked out of it, nor did I want to be told of the potential risks of going to see Arnold. I didn't want to hear it from anyone, to tell you the truth, and the notion that someone would tell me not to see who I believed was the love of my life was asinine to me. It was Wednesday night when I decided to make the trip, the eve of my birthday, and the night before the long weekend I would have, thanks to Samantha.

Smiling to myself, I went through the process of booking the ticket, and was about to select a payment option when my phone vibrated beside me upon my desk. I let out a small sigh of frustration then, turning loose my computer mouse and picking up my phone. Looking at the caller ID, I was surprised to see Olga's name lighting up the screen, along with a picture of me, Eilis, and my older sister, taken on my first trip to California. Smiling momentarily at the memory, I swiped the green phone icon to the left and placed the phone up against my ear.

"Olga, hey," I said, making my voice pleasant.

"Helga..."

"Olga?" I say then, my tone suddenly serious. "What's the matter?"

"It's back..."

"Back?" I whisper then, and suddenly my mind clicks then, nearly spiraling out of control as I push back from my desk and get to my feet, my thoughts going a mile a minute. "Olga?"

"Eilis and I are back in the hospital," she replies. "She... She wasn't eating and said she felt sick, so I took her temperature," she tells me in a rush. "She's just so weak, Helga, so I took her in because she is at risk for a relapse, and..." My older sister's voice breaks from the other end of the phone, and tears automatically fall from my eyes as I hear her stifling a sob. "Helga, I'm so sorry, but I had to call and ask for you to come back to..."

I nodded. "More bone marrow?" I guess, no resentment in my voice. "Are you sure that's what Eilis needs right now? I mean, given that it didn't work before..."

"It could work now—the doctors say so," Olga tells me in a rush. "Unless you're unwilling, and then she can go on a transplant list—"

I shake my head, even though she can't see it. "No, no. No, I'll book a red-eye and get out there," I tell her. "We have off tomorrow, Friday, and then there's the weekend, of course. I'll have a few days—maybe I can take a week. My work and school knows about the situation, so it's not like they can suddenly go all unsympathetic on me now..."

Olga stifles a dark laugh then. "Okay," she tells me. "I'll send a car to get you from the airport when you get here."

I nodded. "Okay. Once I book the ticket, I'll send you the information. Then I'll pack a bag and get to the airport."

"Thank you," Olga whispered.

"Olga."

"Yes?"

I knew offering words of comfort was needed right now, and yet I didn't know what to say without sounding totally cliché. "She's going to be okay," I tell her, even though I had no professional or practical background to tell her that. "I mean, she has to. Eilis has to be okay."

"I know," Olga whispered before the line went dead.

After filling out a temporary change of address form at my apartments' front desk, I made my way out into the darkness, and towards the car waiting for me. Slipping in, I deliberately made small talk with the driver, while texting Olga an update on my progress, in an effort to keep my mind off things. The notion that we could lose Eilis because her body had attacked the treatment lurked at the back of my mind, and I found myself feeling sick to even consider it. Without Eilis, my older sister would be alone, and I knew that I couldn't have that happen. I knew then that, if it happened, I would move to Los Angeles to be with her, even though it was truly the last thing I wanted.

I emailed my teachers and Samantha, rehashing the family emergency, and yet I knew that it was unlikely for me to receive any replies tonight. It was after nine o'clock, and no self-respecting teacher or mother would be checking their work emails at this hour. Once we arrived at the airport, I paid the driver and hauled my suitcase out of there and towards the double doors of the entrance. Waiting in line for my flight, I handed over my boarding pass, ticket, and identification for verification purposes when my turn arrived, and was immediately cleared to go and check my bag. Keeping my laptop case with me, I paid the fee to place my suitcase in holding with the others and meandered over to the security line.

Once I was permitted through the security line, and once I was no longer thought to be a threat to the nation itself, I slipped my shoes and sweater back on and made a grab for my laptop case. Slipping it on over my shoulder, I kept a firm grip upon my various pieces of paperwork as I made my way over to the gate. Looking up at the words of the departure time and place above my gate, I sighed, my shoulders slacking as I read the words _Los Angeles_ , when, more than anything, I wanted them to say _New York_. Shaking my head, I handed over everything temporarily to one of the flight attendants and was soon permitted onto the plane.

I was physically exhausted by the time I found my seat, and found I was not in the least looking forward to the nearly five-hour flight ahead of me. As my head hit the rest area of my seat, I quickly moved my laptop case beneath my seat, tucking the papers into the side flap as I went. Folding my hands upon my lap, I buckled my seatbelt and turned to look out the window. The dark sky stared back at me, and I wondered if it was a bad omen as my eyelids turned heavy and as I finally allowed myself to fall asleep.

. . .

Touching down in Los Angeles at three-thirty in the morning I forced myself awake and straightened up in my seat. I removed my laptop case from beneath the seat when I was permitted to do so, checking my phone for any incoming messages, and was relieved to find one from Olga. She told me where she hid her spare key, and that a driver would be waiting to take me to her place. I was to sleep and then be at the hospital by the following afternoon—well, really _this_ afternoon —to begin treatment to make my body an acceptable one to remove bone marrow for Eilis from. I stepped into the airport from the plane and, after retrieving my luggage, found the car Olga had sent for me, and was relieved to see that it was the same driver from the time before, and, this time, I found out that he was one of the heads of campus security at UCLA, where Olga worked.

We arrived at Olga's house not too long thereafter, and the man told me he would be back at one that afternoon to pick me up. I thanked him and made my way out of the car and towards the front door. Using the flashlight on my cell phone, I was able to find Olga's spare house key and let myself inside. Shutting the door and locking it behind me, I made my way through the darkness of the house and into the guest bedroom. After digging through my luggage, I found a tank top and shorts to sleep in; after changing, I slipped into bed, turning off the light and checking my phone one last time.

 _I'm here, and I'm safe_ , I texted Olga, before sleep took me then.

I awoke with my alarm at eleven-thirty a.m., and I made my way to the attached bathroom to shower off the traveling from the night before and into the morning of that day. My toiletry bag secure between my fingers, I turned on the water, and just managed to manipulate the temperature to one I liked. Stepping inside after putting my toiletries upon the edge of the sink, I allowed my muscles to relax under the stream of hot water. My hair clung to my shoulders and back, its blondness just beginning to darken beneath the water.

I remembered that last good day, that last good day with Arnold. It was after I had been accepted into the competition, but before Arnold found out that they would ultimately be picking him at my say-so. Of course, the notion that Arnold still didn't know about that haunted me, and I knew that, one day, I would have to come clean about that.

 _We went through the Tunnel of Love, and we experienced our first 'real' kiss in that it was different, one we'd never permitted ourselves to experience before. It just felt right, in that moment, knowing that once I told the university what I'd decided, that I hoped he would remember it forever—that, and we got a photo snapped of us, mid-kiss..._

My mind suddenly snapped back to the present, and I realized I was running the risk of wasting water. Stepping out, I made a grab for the towel that was hanging on the peg beside the shower, that Olga always seemed to place there, just in case a guest was coming. I stepped back into my room, wrapped in the towel, and made a grab for my suitcase. Digging into it, I grabbed a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, a sweater, and socks. I opted for my sneakers that day, and laced them up quickly as I checked the time. It was just noon, so I decided to scrounge around the kitchen for something to eat.

I noticed the mailman coming as I passed the large window in the living room and went outside to retrieve the letters. I was shocked when I saw one from Arnold, and thought such a thing was near impossible, but decided not to question it. As the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, I quickly opened the letter then and read Arnold's quick script in front of me. It was unmistakable, my heart beating like that in my chest, so much so that I knew I would have to get it under control before I arrived at the hospital.

 _Dear Helga,_

 _As our time passes more quickly, and our separation becomes longer, I find myself thinking more and more of your selflessness, and I was not the only one who noticed, believe me. Of course, my mother was the first one to verbally point it out, especially when your thirteenth birthday came around. The expression, 'When I was her age', may have come up more than once in conversation. All I could think was, 'Why doesn't my girlfriend want the birthday party she deserves?' It hurt me to see you so nonchalant about the whole thing. In the list of important birthdays—I mean there's one, five, ten, thirteen, sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one... And so on and so on; and it didn't seem to matter to you._

 _And then it occurred to me—I fell for you_ because _typical, everyday things_ didn't _matter to you. Not only because you hadn't experienced the vast majority of them, but because you were, well, you. Suffice it to say I was nevertheless flabbergasted at the notion that you didn't want a proper birthday party, but my mother told me not to dwell upon it. She said it was appropriate for me to ask once and, at your definite refusal, to cease operations entirely._

 _I think the whole betterness in your attitude cannot do solely with me, and I refuse to take all the credit for it either. I think the other person responsible for your betterness would have to fall with Dr. Bliss. I know you miss her; you said so in your one and only phone call to me, three months after I left. I remember hearing your voice shaking at the other end of the phone, and when I tried to ask you what was wrong, you slammed down the receiver. I looked at flights that night, you know—I even spoke to my professors about going home but, apparently, an ex-girlfriend who you broke up with three months before is not a priority, even if said ex-girlfriend is in the middle of a crisis. I never told you this, Helga, but I heard you crying just before the receiver slammed down; I heard you whisper my name, and how much of me wanted to go home was quickly borderlining on a hundred and four percent._

 _I find myself somehow apologizing for more and more as this correspondence continues, and I am not sorry about that. You deserve an apology, Helga, for all the trials and ordeals you had to go through in your lifetime—before, during, and after me. I know you're working hard because Gerald checks up on you through Phoebe for me. I know it's a slightly invasive practice, but I do worry about you, living all alone in an apartment like that. With you working only part time, and at your age, you can't be making all that much financially, and I consider every day telling my parents to invite you to live at the boarding house or help you out in any other way. Who knows? They'd probably want you to live with them anyhow, as a last link to me, since they refuse to speak to me, after the way you and I left things all those years ago._

 _I don't think of myself as a fantastic person, Helga; a fantastic person would not abandon the one person they've ever cared so deeply about at the drop of a hat. I think I should have tried harder to convince you. Maybe if that had happened, we would still be in Hillwood, together, attending a typical high school, and having normal high school experiences. But you and I... I know that you and I were never normal, Helga—none of this has ever been normal. And I'm glad. I'm glad for all of it, and the only thing I would ever take back is the way I left things with you, and for going to New York to tackle my dreams, when I should have waited for you in the first place._

 _Your friend,_

 _Arnold Shortman_

My eyes filling with tears as I methodically proceeded to eat some strawberry yogurt and an energy bar, I left the half-eaten bar and the spoon inside the nearly-empty yogurt container on the kitchen island. I ran to my bedroom and rifled through my suitcase, hands shaking, and managed to find my stationary. I grabbed the matching pen and made my way into the dining room, the massive table perfect for letter-writing, I thought.

I knew it would have been easier to tell him.

It would have been easier to tell him so much, right then.

I thought about telling him about Eilis and what I'd been doing, and then I thought about telling him about my deception. Good deed; deception. It was a hard choice, and I realized then that it was too hard for me to make. My mind swimming with constant questions and answers, I knew it was time to come clean, but the time for that had not yet arrived.

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _I remember wiping the tears away on my thirteenth birthday, that day in the boarding house, when you singlehandedly arranged that quiet dinner for me and your family. The notion that all the presents scattered around the table, and all were things I could use and actually liked—it really made me think that you and your mother had arranged that. I mean, your mother had to have been thirteen once, and you knew me better than anyone at that point. It was a new beginning for me, Arnold—Olga's pregnancy was progressing on schedule, Mom was actually leaving the house once in a while, and my dad was actually in a business that was giving him some satisfaction._

 _I think during those months after I became a teenager, all I wanted to do was not make a mistake. I miss Dr. Bliss every day—about how she could talk me down from negative situations by describing less than positive impacts of what would happen, should I decide to take an undesirable approach. Everyone around us was already gearing up for high school—one year prematurely, I might add—but I never allowed myself to think that far ahead. I couldn't; one false move, and I was convinced I was going to lose you._

 _Forever is an awfully long time, Football Head, and I think the ideal is for your first relationship to be just that, especially in the honeymoon phase. Things seemed like they were all hearts and rainbows since we got back from San Lorenzo; I could still call you Football Head—even now, I find myself doing so out of force of habit—and we never had a fight. Ever—I can't think of one time that we had a fight until you got that letter about your upcoming move to New York. I knew then, as I know now, that that was the beginning of the end. Once you moved across the nation, I knew it would be difficult—if not impossible—to even attempt to maintain what we once had. It was a naïve love, Arnold, I see that now, but some of the best moments of my life stemmed from that love._

 _I didn't know how long it would last—neither of us did—but I think even your parents knew that it wasn't forever. It couldn't have been—I mean, could it have been? With this constant back and forth we've got going on here, I can only come to the direct conclusion that these letters are full of "What if this happened instead of this?" I mean, it's good to consider other possibilities, but it's also really painful at the same time. I can't just go through what's left of my teenage years thinking of what might have been._

 _I wish I could stop myself from wishing it was different; I wish I could stop myself from wanting you back; I even wish I could stop myself from loving you. I can't stop it, Arnold—any of it. None of those three statements will ever be possible for me, and I think I have to accept that. All of it._

 _Your friend,_

 _Helga Pataki_

. . .

I was surprised that, upon my return to Hillwood, that my headmistress, Jane Sewell, wanted to see me immediately. Jane Sewell was a prim and proper woman from England; both her parents were British, but her father was white and her mother was black. She wore her hair naturally, and yet would clip it back or up with chopsticks or stylish clips. Like today, sometimes a rogue black curl would escape the formation, and would lay just next to her temple. When I entered Jane's office, she smiled as she always did, her chocolate brown, almond-shaped eyes radiating with kindness.

"Helga," she said warmly, getting to her feet and extending a hand; her nails were painted a deep purple that day. "How are you?"

"Fine, thank you, Jane," I replied, the notion of calling my high school principal by her first name still a bit daunting, even after three years. "How are you?"

She sighed, shrugging her shoulders as she extended her arm for me to sit down, and she did the same. "Scholarship decisions need to be made soon," she tells me with a smile. "I'm sure you remember it well."

I nodded. "I do. My best friend and I got picked."

"And her boyfriend got picked as well," she says. "Well, ex-boyfriend."

I smiled then. "Yeah. You also picked my boyfriend... Well, in point of fact, he's my ex-boyfriend... He won a contest to go to this architecture learning competition in New York."

"The one for Columbia?" she asked. "Ah. I know it well. They pay for everything, and you pick the school you want, and they put you up and send you there. A dorm and food and rent—all taken care of."

"One lucky kid gets it," I say with a smile.

"Did you enter?" Jane asks.

I nodded. "I did—Arnold, my ex, convinced me."

"I see... But I think there's more to the story than that."

I laugh a little then. "Yeah. Uh, I... The competition originally picked me," I tell her in a quiet voice. "I mean, I never thought that they would even consider, and then it was right in front of me..."

"What did you do?"

"I told them to give it to Arnold, and for some reason they listened to me," I say quietly, shrugging my shoulders.

"You miss him."

I nodded. "Is it that obvious?"

Jane laughs. "I get it, really."

I smiled then, not wanting to pry, but also wanting to know why I'd been called upon by the headmistress. "I'm sorry... I don't want to be rude, but can you tell me why you've asked me here?" I ask.

Jane smiles at me. "I was going over your files, and all the things your teachers have said to you over the years..."

"All good things, I hope?" I ask with a nervous laugh.

Jane nods. "Yes, of course, Helga—they all said you have a tough exterior, but a heart of gold. Literally, if I recall what happened in San Lorenzo correctly..."

I raise my eyebrows. "You know about that?"

"My father is a diplomat," she explains. "I had to know a thing or two about geography if I was going to survive a conversation with him as I grew up. So yes, I know about it."

I nodded. "Well, then..."

"Well, your academic performance is... Helga, it's off the charts," she tells me, and my mind immediately snaps to attention. "You seem to have this in-depth knowledge of any material _before_ it's placed in front of you. At first, your teachers thought you were merely bored in class, but that's the point, Helga—you _are_ bored, and not because you're being rude. It's because you understand the material so much that it's actually doing you more harm than good."

"What are you saying?" I ask.

She smiles. "Well, I'm saying that it's the last week of March now, and we don't typically do this, but we're going to move you up to senior classes—physics, calculus, government, music theory, advanced French, and marketing, is what I was considering for you."

"Wait, wait," I say, utterly confused. "Does this mean what I think it means? I mean, does this make me a senior?"

"Yes, especially because you took your SAT and ACT as a sophomore," she tells me in a patient voice. "You got a 1600 on your SAT, and a 36 on your ACT. I mean, that, combined with your excellent grades, it's downright criminal that we've kept you one step back."

I sigh, shaking my head. "So, when does this all start?"

"If you consent, you could begin with auditing the classes this morning," Jane replies in an efficient manner. "We should have the turnover finalized by the day after tomorrow at the latest, and you would need to have your new teachers sign this form," she says, removing a piece of paper from the manila envelope just in front of her. "Your other teachers have signed off on it—they did on Friday—which is, of course, pending your approval."

I nodded then, gazing at the names of the various new teachers I would have to now interact with on a daily basis. Rolling over the possibilities in my mind, I realized that I had to do this for myself. If I graduated in June, it would give me the opportunity to have more work hours, and it would also make my schedule more flexible in general. That way, if something were to come up in Los Angeles, I could go more easily than I could before. I raised my eyes up to Jane, who smiled in an encouraging manner at me.

"Thank you," I replied, getting to my feet. "I really appreciate you taking the time to tell me all this," I say, putting out my hand. "I accept."

"Wonderful," Jane says, immediately getting to her feet and shaking my hands. "I really do hope you enjoy your senior year, Helga—well, two and a half months of it, anyway."

I laugh then, lowering my eyes to the piece of paper again. "After today, Jane, I suspect things are looking up."


	8. The Big Bang Theory

Chapter Eighteen: The Big Bang Theory

 _Dear Helga,_

 _Selfishly, of course, I don't want you to stop loving me—since you know how I feel, I think it's safe to say that I should win the title of 'Most Selfish Ex-Boyfriend of All Time', but I doubt there is such a title. And, even if there was, I doubt I'm even the most selfish one there is. Although I will never even begin to forgive myself for all I've done to you over our years in immediate contact together, I know there were some good times throughout. As bad as the later years are and have been, I know that you or I would never sacrifice or wish away the good times for anything. I know we were truly happy, and nothing will ever change that._

 _That first trip to New York put everything into perspective; although we'd been to San Lorenzo together twice at that point, I guess I never really considered how grand a big city like that could be. I think that was the moment that made me want more, when I became addicted to success after going with Harrison to work. Just knowing how hard I would have to work to get ahead, and how hard I'd have to play ball just to get it all in life. It's not a safe thing, addiction—on any level, really, but when you're addicted to wannabe success, you become a workaholic, and that's something I never wanted to be._

 _Simple things, after coming back to Hillwood, suddenly became a chore, as we were under so much pressure to get it right. I even remember how much pressure there was to pick a high school. Did we want Hillwood High, or did you want to go to Hillwood Academy and me to Hillwood Preparatory, our all-girl and all-boys' private schools? Of course, even if we had gone with the private schools, since they were across the street from each other, they shared a quad and the same lunch hour, so we neither of us would have truly been apart. I remember you working for weeks on your essay for Hillwood Academy, and me for Hillwood Preparatory, and all I could remember thinking was if they had halfway decent budgets for their uniforms. Was it the itchy, cheap wool from underfed sheep, or that softer kind, made from alpaca fur?_

 _I think the last time I saw you working so hard on a specific assignment would have to have been your seventh-grade midterm. I just took the easy way out and did sea monkey living conditions and how they affected population, but you did something far greater. I guess I never really considered monogamy in other centuries, and how much more it supposedly meant for women than for men. I can't believe men were just allowed to run around and do whatever they wanted with whomever they wanted. I guess that's what money got you back them—a roomful of women who were there to do your bidding._

 _After all we went through, I think—I know—that you know me enough to realize that I never looked at anyone else that way, in the years we were together. You and I were hardly ever apart, and our homework got heavier that year, so not only did I not have the time or energy, but I wasn't interested. You were all that mattered to me other than school and my family, as well as our closer friends. But, Helga, believe me when I say this—you were always number one to me._

 _Your friend,_

 _Arnold Shortman_

Senior classes had begun for me with a bang; a big bang, literally, especially since Phoebe had called Rhonda about it. Rhonda managed to get the whole gang back together in the third week of April to celebrate, and it was a wonderful thing to experience. It was shocking, to say the least, that Rhonda's parents trusted a bunch of seventeen-year-olds at their home alone, but I didn't question it. I didn't drink the punch, and attempted not to break anything, which was to be expected when you're a guest in someone's home.

I watched the typical scene of chaos unfold in front of me; Rhonda had hired a DJ for the occasion, and the homemade beats he was laying down made the air thick with pumping noises. The smoke machine clouded everyone's vision, and the light show did nothing to help anyone's psyche. I smiled at Nadine when she came over but politely declined the offer of punch—underage drinking was not something on my radar, nor was it anything I wanted or needed to cross off my bucket list. I thought of the notion that this party was planned for me, but it had turned into a full-scale rager. There was nothing remotely interesting or validating about this party, and, getting to my feet, decided to head back to the bedroom to grab my sweater and head out.

Crossing my fingers that I would not find anything untoward on my journey there, I was pleased to find the bedroom empty, yet quickly got out of there. The last thing I needed was for the situation for Old Betsy and the Five Avengers to present themselves to someone's face. Stepping back out into the party, I spotted Gerald over by the refreshment table—a catered section, plus a typical high school party section—and then there was the bowl of punch. However, hidden beneath the tablecloth, I spotted a few six packs of beer, and when I raised my eyes upwards, I saw Gerald holding one in his hands. He swayed a little on his feet, but anyone would likely think it was his own signature dance moves—typically great at parties, but now I was not so sure.

Part of me wanted to go over there, to make sure he was okay, but there were a few ounces of me that held back. _He betrayed you_ , one part of my mind said. _Yeah, but you don't want him to die of alcohol poisoning either_... I leaned up against the frame that led back into the hallway, at odds for what to do about this would-be terrible situation. Finally, I squared my shoulders—after seeing that it was after eleven o'clock—and made my way towards the front door.

"He's a big boy," I muttered to myself, stepping outside into the dark spring night and down the stairs. I made it home in good time, and promptly went into my bedroom to finish writing my latest letter to Arnold. It was the penultimate Friday of the month, one month into spring, and two months before summer began. I could hardly believe that, two months from now, I would officially be finished with the high school experience...

 _Dear Helga,_

 _First and foremost—Happy Birthday! How does it feel to officially be seventeen-years-old, and just one more year away from opening that box I left you? Please tell me you haven't peeked yet—I really do want it to be a surprise. It's just one of those things you have to wait for—like your first car or voting for your first-ever President of the United States. Sure, it's a long time coming, but it's worth the wait—well, nine times out of ten, at least._

 _Since springtime is officially here in New York and there in Hillwood, I can't help but wonder when summer weather will officially set in. Of course, springtime is wonderful, but there's that whole romance side to it that we learned from_ Bambi _when we were all kids. I don't know about you, but romance is dead to me and I don't wish to know it any longer. Well, I don't know about dead—I personally think that hibernation would be a better term; dormant, waiting for just the right person to awaken it. I know, I know—two Disney references in one paragraph by someone like me is weird, but, you know..._

 _What are your birthday plans? I know my parents would love to see you, or are you going home? Better yet, are you coming to New York to see Olga? That would be amazing if you were, because then I could accidentally on purpose run into you somewhere like Central Park. I know it wouldn't really be accidentally on purpose but it was worth a shot to ask. You know how much I miss you; I even miss Old Betsy and the Five Avengers—although I'm not sure why you didn't use either of them on me at the airport when I left Hillwood._

 _Enclosed is some cash for you to get yourself something nice for your birthday, as I constantly hear from Gerald about how hard you're working. You obviously deserve a little pick me up—even going to the grocery store and buying something other than ramen or instant noodles would be acceptable to me. All I want is your happiness, Helga—but if you do buy a gorgeous dress or something, don't hesitate to send me a picture of you in it. Okay—I'm totally done with the creepy ex-boyfriend portion of my letter, I swear._

 _Do have fun on your birthday, Helga—as I stated before, I know my parents would love to see you, but if you have other plans, they will understand. Hey, I mean you see them once a week, at least, so maybe you want to delay your visitation to them for a while. I want you to know that you're under no obligation to see them—I know they adore you but if you feel like you have to do it, please don't. I know that they would never want to force anything on you, and after everything I ended up putting you through, I can understand why you wouldn't want to see them for the foreseeable future either._

 _Your friend,_

 _Arnold Shortman_

. . .

 _No, we certainly could not live for one another_ , I thought to myself as I trudged to work during the final week of April. Samantha greeted me as always, and I was pleased when she told me it would likely be a slow, easy shift. I'd told her about Jane Sewell putting me in senior classes, and Samantha was overjoyed for me. I was pleased to have someone like Samantha in my corner, as she had not only become a friend, but a qualified sounding board when it came right down to knowing what path and direction to take in life.

"Were you familiar with other psychologists in Hillwood?" I asked her casually that afternoon, not wanting to pry completely.

"Of course—there were the occasional board meetings and luncheons we had to attend throughout the years," she replied.

"Anyone stand out in particular?"

Samantha smiled, obviously thinking it over. "Well, of course. I can't remember all of them, though. It was a long time ago."

I nodded. "Yeah, I see..."

"You had a therapist, didn't you?" she asked gently.

I nodded. "Yeah. Dr. Bliss."

Samantha blinked. "Dr. Bliss? Dr. Lisa Bliss?"

I shrugged my shoulders, fetching the cleaning supplies on my own and proceeding to wipe down yet another table. "Yeah. Saw her from age nine to age fourteen. She made quite an impression on me..."

"Lisa and I were friends—best friends, in fact," Samantha said quietly as I turned to look at her. "We roomed together at the University of Hillwood for six years. I never had a better friendship than I had with her..."

I shook my head. "I'm amazed..."

"We lost touch after I married Chad," she said quietly, and I found my brows knitting together at that. "She thought it was a breach of contract, of the doing no harm argument. It wasn't only because of ethics—Lisa could've easily ignored that, given my feelings for Chad. It was the fact that he, in her eyes, didn't measure up to me."

"Didn't measure up?"

"She was very...protective," Samantha said quietly, her tone not at all accusing. "I guess, at first, I thought it was sisterly, but then..." She gave a small smile then. "I guess certain signs are given after a while, and then you've got to decide if you're going to remain in an awkward friendship or just cut all ties. I chose the latter, and although I miss her, I doubt it would've made things easier between us, had the friendship continued."

"Why?"

"Well, she was jealous," she replied. "She didn't like Chad at all, let alone his values—which she was convinced were in the gutter. I guess I hoped that she would forget all the things she said—that we, in a sense, change our friendship, because that's what she wanted—and she couldn't understand that I would never want something like that."

"You know that she's...?"

"Gone? Yes. I kick myself every day that she and I couldn't have come together in the end. I'd want her to know that I was no longer blinded by love—that I finally understood where she was coming from. I was so young and too proud, I guess, and the notion that she actually wanted to..." Samantha sighed. "...well, I don't think it would've changed anything between us, even if I knew who Chad was, because I got Tess and Willy out of it."

"I guess we all don't know as much as we would like about people," I say quietly as I finish wiping down the table.

Samantha nods. "You're right... Well, it's time for your dinner, Miss Pataki," she tells me with a smile. "Go back there and write to that boyfriend of yours and enjoy the meatloaf."

" _Ex_ -boyfriend," I remind her with a smile, heading to the back.

. . .

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _Now and again I'll lift down the box of whatever it is you've left for me and just sit there for hours holding it—even after all this time, I feel the need to tell you that I do that. Somehow, I don't want to be butchered via letter due to a technicality in our agreement, so I feel the need to inform you that, while I have made physical contact with the box, I've not yet looked inside it. I wouldn't do that, even though you're so far away, I wouldn't go breaking the rules; not now._

 _As for the money you've sent me, Football Head, I took it to the bank and had it put all into ones—let's just say that the bank manager came out to see who was asking for such a ridiculous thing. He was not best pleased when he saw a scrawny, unattractive female who looked as if she was practically dead on her feet from overwork and lack of sleep demanding such a thing. I wouldn't be surprised if he called the banks in the immediate surrounding area to see if any robberies were reported. He obviously came up dry, because I wasn't hauled out from there and into a prison cell._

 _What do I plan on doing with this assortment of one-dollar bills, you ask? Well, my dear Football Head, I intend to keep a dollar in my pocket daily. If something out there strikes my fancy for a dollar or less, I'll buy it. If it doesn't, then I shall go without—I want these dollars to last a long time, Football Head. I'm not starving completely yet, and even if I was, I'd be unlikely to tell you I was. I wouldn't want to add another layer of guilt to the bundle you yourself are wearing constantly in the State of New York._

 _Now that April has dawned, all I can think about is the light at the end of the tunnel known as June. I remember whenever that month arrived, you, Gerald, Phoebe, and I would all grow terribly excited at what lay ahead. Those trips to San Lorenzo were the height of my summer—of course, it didn't hurt that we always found time to recreate our first kiss. I know that Gerald would always feel the need to walk in and interrupt us, but now I don't mind so much. Now, I'm always walking in on him and Phoebe together, locked in a tight embrace or something—it's not to say that it disgusts me, but considering that that could've been us, I'd say I feel more resentful._

 _With prom season just around the corner, I have the distinct impression that Brainy will attempt one of those disastrous promposals. Of course, I will say a resounding no to his question—not because I intend to go stag to one of those overrated organizations, but because I have no intention of going at all. It is a waste of time and money—neither of which I have in great abundance these days—and why waste a night like that when you're not currently head over heels for anyone currently living in your hometown? It makes no sense, and besides, my boss says I could easily make time and a half that night, anyhow._

 _But all this money talk is making me feel uncomfortable. Tell me something wonderful about you in your next letter, Football Head—I could use hearing something amazing right about now. My shifts are too long, as are my school days, and my books are too heavy. I can barely stand up waiting for the bus at the crack of dawn or late at night, and I really want to hear something good. You were always good at making me smile, and I know you won't be able to stop now. Have you found that special someone in New York yet? I know they're out there, and I don't want you holding back out of some loyalty to me, because two and a half years is a long time to be closed off to anything involving the opposite sex. I am officially giving you permission, Arnold, to move on, because I feel like you think you're not allowed to. Go ahead and have some fun—you deserve it!_

 _Your friend,_

 _Helga Pataki_

The notion of what I'd just done fully hit me as I posted that letter in the final days of April, and yet it was a relaxing feeling—after the momentary "tone of bricks" one had gone through me. As April completed and turned into May, I began scrambling to complete my senior project, and yet I found myself momentarily stuck on the topic. However, when it hit me then, I realized that it was one that had been there the entire time, and I was a fool for not seeing it.

I decided to use the letters I'd sent back and forth with Arnold, and to write a prologue to the story, starting with Arnold leaving, then skipping ahead to me getting emancipation status. It would ultimately become a short story, and I would end up changing our names from Arnold and Helga to Arthur and Helen, and it was set in post-World War II Germany. With Arthur Tallboy, an American solider wanting to return home, and Helen Strokelock, his American nurse sweetheart who joined the battlefields of Paris, hoping the find him. Little did she know that the long distance could damage everything.

Even as May turned into June, I found myself stumped as to how to write an ending for the tale, as it hadn't happened yet. Frustration turned to anger, and I found myself looking for inspiration in past letters to pass the time. Between that, and cleaning my apartment, and going to work, and somehow managing to factor in moments to complete assignments for other classwork, I found myself exhausted by the trial ahead of me. Not only did I have to complete this assignment, but I also had to study for final exams and do all assignments I could before the year was out. Then there was Greg, who hadn't stopped staring at me as the months began to get warmer, giving me an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

The notion that I didn't want anyone touching me who was in a position of authority was a given, and yet I felt powerless to stop the looks. Because he wasn't necessarily _doing_ anything, I figured there was nothing to be done. I didn't speak to Samantha about it, because the last thing I wanted was for my friend to think that I was against her brother and, by association, her family. And then there was the seed of doubt about the whole thing that suddenly spread throughout my mind, about the fact that I could conceivably be fired for complaining...

 _Dear Helga,_

 _I was just thinking about your fourteenth birthday as springtime is here at last again in New York. Back when things seemed simpler, before it all went wrong; it was back when Dr. Bliss was around, back before all the fights and arguments that just seemed like they couldn't be helped. I wish I'd tried to talk to you in a different perspective about the whole thing, instead of blaming you about the notion that you didn't want me to have a future. I know you did, and yet I also know that you were afraid of what would happen if I left. I was afraid too, and all my worst fears were realized when I did finally leave, and things fell apart._

 _One of my professors out here said something interesting to me; he compared a relationship to a house plant. House plants need water, sunshine, food, care, and love—all things humans need from one another, either in a familial way, a platonic way, or romantic way. I think that's why things got lost in translation with us, Helga, ultimately, because we didn't give our relationship everything it needed. I think humans need two things that plants don't—communication and honesty. If I communicated with you a little bit better, and was able to explain in an honest manner what I was feeling, and able to listen to you as well, I think, perhaps, things would have been different._

 _I remember how pretty you looked in that dress. I remember going to that big department store in Downtown Hillwood with my mom and picking it out for you. I remember laughing when she suggested something a bit more frilly and girly and elegant for you, but something about that dress spoke to me. It was simple and elegant all on its own—just like you are, and just like you shall always be. The pearl necklace was from your father, the shoes from Olga, and the wrap was from your mother. She said she wanted to hand-deliver everything to you; I think she thought it would help make up for all her short-comings towards you all these years, and I can see that, for a moment, at least, it helped. You were so radiant and happy that night, and I wouldn't change that night for anything in the world; it was truly the beginning of the end._

 _I know things went wrong for a reason, Helga—I just can't fathom why they seemed to unravel so quickly. I'd give anything to change it, but nobody can turn back time, unfortunately. I think we have to make the best of a bad situation, and figure out how to continue on through it._

 _Your friend,_

 _Arnold Shortman_

I went to school that day with a lightness to my step that I hadn't felt in some time, and it was notably due to my physics teacher, Martin Crawford, a man who had actually gotten me to understand a complex subject. It was rather daunting to me to be faced, for the first time in years, with something I struggled with academically, and I didn't want to be in a position of fallout. That morning, I arrived at physics early and slipped into my customary desk, taking out my notes to go over for the exam that morning, our final one before the test at the end of the following week, which would ultimately determine our final grade.

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _Don't fault me for not writing for a few weeks—things have been pretty hectic here on my end. Before Gerald or Phoebe leak the information to you, I'd like you to be the first to know that, as of last week, I dropped out of Hillwood Academy. I took my GED the day after I signed my walking papers, and got my results within hours of taking the test. I passed with flying colors; now I can take over more duties at the restaurant, and was promoted to assistant manager. I know this wasn't originally intended in the cards for me, but life has a funny way of doing this to you sometimes._

 _Now I'm going to tell you something that I never thought I would tell you, Football Head, but it's been eating away at me and I can't stand it anymore. You may think I'm crazy, so I sent along the documentation as proof, just so you don't think that I'm a total masochist. The thing is, a week before eighth grade graduation, I got a letter from the Columbia University Competition for Young Applicants, accepting me into the program of my choice. I didn't want to leave you or Hillwood or any of it, so I declined... I declined..._

"Oh, Helga!" Dr. Crawford said as he stepped into the room from the supply room beyond. "Glad someone's here! I need to get down some scratch paper from my bins inside here, and I need someone to hold the ladder for me."

I nodded. "No problem," I replied, getting to my feet and following into the supply closet. "Over here?"

"Right there," Dr. Crawford said, stepping onto the old ladder, which shook a bit beneath his weight, so much so that I promptly held it in place. "Thanks," he said, his tone grateful as he grabbed a cardboard box, which I was pretty sure held the aforementioned scratch paper. He climbed down again, and set the box aside with a smile. "It's been a relief to teach someone who doesn't know every bit of the material," he said, not unkindly. "Sometimes I get kids in here who are walking, talking, physics encyclopedias, and it's enough now."

"That _would_ be annoying," I put in.

"I hope you don't mind if I write down some of our interactions about some of your thoughts about the class. I write books and articles for science magazines, and they like varied student opinions. Your name would, of course, be changed to protect your identity."

I shake my head. "I don't mind at all. I hope someone can learn something from the errors I made early on in the course."

"I'm sure they will," Dr. Crawford replied, placing a hand on my shoulder. "But not everyone can know everything."

"Is that why you teach?" I asked.

Dr. Crawford laughed. "I think even if I did, I mainly only know about this subject and a few other branches of science—biochemistry, botany, ecology, things like that—and I could hardly have anyone learning everything from me."

 _I'm so, so sorry I didn't tell you before, Arnold. I know you must hate me, and, to be perfectly honest, I wouldn't blame you. You must think I did this whole thing as a test to see how loyal you were to me. To be honest, the thought did occur to me, and it was a stupid thing to do. I should have never done something like this, and I know that, after all this time, to apologize now makes absolutely no sense._

 _To think I put you through such hell and then just expected you to automatically forgive me, and to continue to lay on the guilt for over a year... My behavior is inexcusable, and I know, if I were you, I would not forgive me. The fact that I had you and lost you in bad faith...I shall never forgive myself for that—for any of it—and neither should you..._

"But certainly, they would know more, under your guidance, sir..."

Dr. Crawford's brown eyes took on a new gaze then when I spoke. "And are you learning under my guidance, Helga?"

"I think it's evidenced from my mediocre C to my A-, earned in a span of just a few weeks, from said guidance, sir."

Dr. Crawford's hand moved slightly towards my collar bone. "I like to think that my students do well under me...and my guidance, of course...especially when they are respectful, and call me 'sir'...as you have."

"Sir?" I asked, confused.

Dr. Crawford's eyes immediately darted up from where they had been lingering at my chest, and he smiled at me. "Well, I think you've done well under my guidance, Helga, and it is a shame you won't be under me in a week and a half, when you graduate from Hillwood Academy..."

"E-everyone needs to move onto the next step, Dr. Crawford..."

Dr. Crawford nodded. "Of course...and yet, sometimes I appreciate it when some students, the ones who need special help, linger on a bit longer for some extra, much-needed tutelage..." As he said this, his hand descended lower then, and groped the skin around my breast. "Do we understand each other, Helga?" he asked, a grin spreading across his face.

"What are you doing?" I asked him, my voice laced with venom.

 _I'm not about to say that I was the only imperfect party here, Arnold. The way you treated me was unacceptable, the day before you left. The way you were demanding things of me—how could you ask me if I cared about your future? I cared so much—why do you think I essentially told them all at Columbia to pick you for this thing instead of me?_

 _It's because I didn't deserve it, and you did. Besides, my volumes of poetry about you would have never been able to pass through security. The sensors would have picked up on some of the language, and then I'd been in airport prison. Bad girlfriend prison, maybe, but not airport prison..._

Dr. Crawford continued to grin. "I think you know what I'm doing, Helga. You may be lacking in the physics department, but not in the physical one."

Immediately, and almost without thinking, my hand curled into a fist and I slammed it directly into Dr. Crawford's cheek. I watched as he spun across the room then and I quickly evaded his grasping hands as I ran from the supply room, making a grab for my things and dashing out of there. Tears blinding my vision, I ran for Jane's office, shaking from my encounter with Dr. Crawford. I ran through the lobby area and into her office without knocking, and Jane looked at me with a shocked expression.

"Helga, what are you—"

"Dr. Crawford..." I cried out then, and lowered my eyes to find that, when I punched him, he must have grabbed onto my blouse, which was ripped, exposing my bra beneath, making me feel vulnerable.

"Is he all right?" Jane asked, and my stomach rolled.

"He _assaulted_ me!" I scream at her then. "I punched him, so no, he is not all right, Jane, not in the slightest!"

"Well, did you do any damage to him?" she asked.

My blood boiled—I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Consider this as me dropping out," I say, my tone flat as I walked out of her office, my voice managing not to crack, but my eyes still blinded by unshed tears.

 _Other secrets I carried with me, too, Arnold. I think that since so long has passed, and we always preach honesty to each other, I think we should share them. One I can share with you now, because I think a part of you has always known. Always known that it was difficult for me, but also before I knew that losing two people I cared so much about was too difficult to bear..._

I stared at the page before me as I walked, not knowing how to complete the thought as the sign Hillwood Cemetery greets my eyes. Due to me budgeting and managing to pay off Dr. Bliss's property taxes for five years, I decided to splurge a little and bought myself a car. It certainly made things easier when it came to getting from point A to point B, and I found that I didn't miss the bus, or the people that came with it, at all. As I cleared the cemetery gates, I rolled down the curved slopes of the custom-built sidewalks, trying in vain to find one section in particular, one that I'd not come to see. Even though a funeral had been held, and I had been so taken care of in the will, I couldn't bear to say goodbye in front of everyone else who she had loved and who had loved her. I'd said goodbye at the hospital, and been there right up until the very end, so that had to account for something, right?

Finally, I spotted the right section and pulled the car over, stepping out, the stationary tucked beneath my arm, and the matching pen in my free hand. I made my way over to the grave, the words Lisa Katie Bliss, beloved daughter, sister, and friend staring back at me. I sat upon the stone bench across from the grave, looking at the picture caught of Dr. Bliss, before the cancer had overtaken her so severely, and before she had lost her hair. She was caught mid-laugh—I believed that it was at a holiday work party—and she looked so radiant that one would think she was as unstoppable as they came.

"You always told me to tell the truth," I said quietly, gazing down at the letter I'd tried to hard to write over the past week, the week that I'd left Hillwood Academy, and the week that I'd gotten my GED results back. Gazing down at the incomplete thought written down on paper, allowing myself to remember...

" _But I'm not ready to tell him!" my nine-year-old self screamed in my mind, as I remembered the fateful day that I'd walked into Dr. Bliss's office and taken a load off—literally._

" _You don't have to tell him now. You can do it when you're ready."_

It wasn't about being ready or not ready anymore—I had saddled Arnold with this false belief that he had been the only choice for the competition, and I couldn't live with myself anymore. For once, Arnold had been seen as "second-best" in the eyes of the competition, and I couldn't have him thinking that way. He was never "second-best"—he was always Arnold... Arnold, Arnold, Arnold. I was absolutely posilutely in love with the boy.

I didn't even know if that feeling ever would change, but sitting there on that mid-June day in Hillwood Cemetery did nothing to give me closure on the matter. I knew that in order to placate Arnold's feelings of sympathy for me, I had to tell him the truth, and whether he would like it or not would be his decision. Had I told him right away, I wondered if things would've been different, but it was too late to turn back now to figure out such a thing.

I scrawled my final thoughts down as a rough copy, and after checking my phone, realized that I would be late to my shift at work if I didn't hurry. Getting to my feet, I returned to my car and got inside, driving down the paths and out of the cemetery and down the street. I spotted Gerald on my drive to the diner, parked on the side of the road, a beer bottle not-so-cleverly hidden inside a paper bag, and wondered then what idiot had sold it to him. Shaking my head, I continue driving to work, trying to keep my mind off Arnold and Gerald, knowing that two truths could hurt them.

I drove into the parking lot of the restaurant, finding my new employee space towards the kitchen entrance and got out of the car, straightening my blouse and heading inside. Inside, I put on my nametag, yet as I stepped out and into the restaurant, a scene from hell enveloped me then. Greg was standing beside Samantha, who had apparently collapsed, and the various cooks were shouting at one another in Spanglish. Trying and failing to keep up with the conversation, I stepped forward, unsure of what to do.

"What's wrong with her?" I whispered to Greg, quickly closing the curtains and flipping the sign to _Closed_.

"She has multiple-sclerosis," Greg replied, his tone fearful for his younger sister as he gazed down at her. "She was seizing up a few moments before you arrived, but it's stopped now. Hopefully it'll pass..."

"Did she have it as a child?" I asked quietly.

Greg nodded. "Yeah. With Mom and Dad running the restaurant, it fell to me to take care of her. She went into remission at eighteen, just after high school graduation, and was free of it until just after she had Willy. She suffered a relapse then, and Chad, unsurprisingly, did nothing to help..." Greg flexes his fingers then and sighs. "Almost went to jail because of it..."

"What?!" I cried.

Greg looked up at me. "You have a sister, don't you?"

I nodded. "Yeah. She's older, but I was always the more emotionally mature one of the two of us..."

Greg sighed. "Would you beat up her significant other?"

I felt my shoulders slack then. "I think if you knew what my sister's ex-husband was capable of, even you would..."

Greg nodded then. "Likely," he replied, turning back to Samantha. "I told Dad to delay handing the restaurant over to me—to delay his retirement—so that I could take care of her. Chad was already involved with Ruby... I couldn't believe when I caught them in her car, in the driveway, doing god knows what before I came upon the two of them. I told Ruby to get lost and thankfully she did, but Chad wasn't so lucky, I'm afraid..."

"You beat him up?" I asked.

Greg sighed. "I did. I just saw red—couldn't help it. We reached a settlement out of court, but Dad was so mad it nearly cost me the restaurant. He wanted to hand it over to his younger brother, Louie."

"Did you beat him up, too?" I asked him.

Greg's eyes immediately flashed to mine, and he smiled then when he realized that I was joking. "No. Can't say I wouldn't have, though. When you're so angry that you can't see or think straight, some mental thing takes over where you're not even sure which way's up."

I nodded, kneeling down on Samantha's opposite side. "I know what you mean," I reply then, wanting to take her hand but making no move to do so. "She'll be all right, won't she?"

Greg nodded. "Yeah. The damned doctors put her on a new medication, and she must've had a bad reaction. I called them, and they're sending an ambulance over for her."

I nodded back at him. "Anything I can do?"

"We don't have any planned reservations tonight, so if you could update the website that we're closed until further notice, that would be great. Don't worry," he said in a rush at my concerned expression. "You and the cooks'll get time and a half if you just say it's a family emergency."

"This isn't about the money," I tell him then, and his eyes lock with mine then in a moment of gratitude.

He nods. "I know. But we all need it, don't we?"

I returned his nod. "You're right."

"Makes the world go round and all," he says, sighing a little. "The cooks will go home eventually, but go ahead and take off, Helga. I've got her."

I sighed, feeling bad that I'd misjudged Greg—for the moment, anyway—as I got to my feet. "You're a good brother," I tell him quietly. "I just wish that you could be like this all the time..."

"Unprofessional?"

"Nice," I tell him. "It's not always unprofessional when you're being nice. You should try it sometime," I tell him gently, making my way out of there. I go back out and let myself into my car, digging though my bag then. Taking out the halfway-written piece of stationary, I know what I have to do. I know I have to complete the story, even though it wasn't necessarily the ending I wanted, or the one I dreamed of. However, at this moment, I knew that, whatever happened next, it would ultimately turn out to be the one I deserved.

 _It was stage four brain cancer that took her away from all of it, Arnold. For so long I couldn't bring myself to say it. She left me her apartment in her will—the place I now call home. Never did I think it, but when I found the adoption papers in some of her things, with my name beside 'Name of Child' and her name beside 'Name of Applicant', I knew her true intentions. She'd brought it up to me in that veiled way of hers, but never did I think she actually meant it. Apparently, she was rejected—I don't have all the details._

 _That was the problem with me, Arnold—when love came calling, I didn't think I deserved or was worthy of it. Maybe along some lines I wasn't, but along others, I was worthy. It just took me a little longer to see it that way, but even I know that it was a little too late—especially after all that I've told you. I guess the bottom line out of all this is, we did love each other—I knew you were going to say it that day at the airport, but I didn't want to hear it._

 _We loved each other, that was a given, although I cannot fathom why you never felt the need to say it. I knew it, for sure, but it would have still been nice. Maybe the point of all this is, is that we weren't ready for all of it. We jumped into things and thought that that was it—that we would be together forever. I guess getting ready for things is important, because we weren't..._

 _Your friend,_

 _Helga Pataki_


	9. Second-Guessing

Chapter Nineteen: Second-Guessing

The silence that emitted from Arnold's end of things as the weeks and months went by did nothing to assuage my fears. Once summer was in full swing, Greg informed me that Samantha was now on paid leave, and asked me to fill in for the hostess position, while a new waitress was added to the staff. This included extended work hours, as well as other duties, like helping Greg close up after the cooks had left. I didn't mind; after Samantha's relapse, a dialogue had been opened between us, and we were actually getting along.

"What did you mean that night?" Greg asked me in the second week of July, after a particularly long shift. It was just after ten p.m., and we were sitting at the little bar at the back of the restaurant—Greg with a bottle of beer and me with a soda. "It was when you said that I'd beat up your former brother-in-law..."

"He's one of those uptight Wall Street executives," I reply, sipping my drink. "I mean, silver spoon and all that. He was the first of two boys, but he was always the favorite of the two of them. Spoiled rotten, he was their heir to everything—one of those families with old money, you know."

"And your sister fell for him?" Greg asks.

I nodded. "She did, yeah. Like I said, I was the more emotionally mature of the two of us. We were both intelligent, but she got the beauty, I got the maturity. I guess that happens sometimes..."

"What did he do that was so bad?"

I sighed. "He was abusive," I reply. "The long and the short of it is that he was starting to turn on the children..."

Greg raised his eyebrows. "In _that_ way?"

I nodded. "Yes. In _that_ way."

"Bastard," Greg said heatedly, gripping onto his beer bottle. "Those poor kids. I can't even imagine..."

"You likely wouldn't want to," I reply. "The twins were babies at the time."

"Please tell me your sister got full custody..."

I sighed, deflating at the memory. "No, Olga did not get full custody. Her ex-husband had all these people of authority in his back pocket, so he got their son, and she got their daughter..."

Greg shook his head. "What can people do when the outsiders know that they're wrong?" he asks.

I shake my head back at him. "Even I can't answer that question," I reply.

. . .

" _Who only says it once?" Olga demands, her eyes roving over my downcast face in The Enliven Éclair, trying to solve the mystery. "Which boyfriend in their right mind, who's been with their significant other for three years only says, 'I love you' one time?!"_

 _I sigh. "Keep your voice down, Olga," I reply. "It's not like it really matters at this point, you know..."_

" _Of course it matters!" she says, exasperation in her voice. "Harrison may have beaten me to a bloody pulp whenever something went badly on the job, but at least he said it to me—"_

 _I raise my eyes to hers. "That wasn't love."_

" _Helga?"_

" _That rat bastard beat you, Olga—he_ beat _you," I say through my teeth, really hammering the point home. "What man claims to love a woman one moment and then wounds everything in his wake the next?" I shake my head, finally forcing myself to exhale my frustration. "He's a criminal, Olga, and he belongs in a jail cell with his name on it..."_

 _Olga straightens herself out then, picking up her glass of wine and swirling it momentarily in her glass. "I can't press charges," she says softly before she lifts it to her lips and drinks._

 _I let out a half-gasp, half-scoff noise then. "I'm sorry. What?"_

 _Olga sighs. "Harrison and I didn't have a prenup, but we did have...a contract of sorts," she tells me._

" _What is this? Fifty Shades of Portman?!" I demand, my voice riddled with disgust and anger._

 _Olga turns white as the tablecloth and hastily returns her wine glass to it. "No, it wasn't anything like that."_

" _Then what was it like?" I demand, my voice hushed._

" _If our marriage lasted less than five years, due to mistreatment or adultery, then I would get three hundred thousand dollars to live on, plus custody of any of our daughters," she replied._

 _I shake my head. "I don't understand."_

 _Olga covered her mouth. "The conditions stipulated that I wasn't allowed to reveal any of the information," she says, her words seeping through her parted fingers. "I shouldn't even be telling you any of this..."_

" _Tell me," I whispered._

 _Olga shuddered, the tears escaping her eyes resembling finely cut diamonds. "I once caught Harrison in the nursery, blackout drunk..."_

 _I found myself gripping the edges of the table. "Olga," I whispered, my voice shaking, "what are you telling me?"_

" _He was leaning over Eilis's crib," she whispered, her voice shaking and choked as she did her best to hold back her sobs._

" _Olga..." I whispered._

" _He said that if I didn't give him what he wanted—what I was required to give him as his wife—then he would take what he needed from...Eilis..."_

" _She's a baby!" I hissed in disgust, rage bubbling just beneath the surface. "What the hell was he thinking?!"_

" _I wanted to kill him," Olga whispered. "But Harrison got so paranoid that people were watching us that he hid spy cams all over the house..."_

" _Why didn't you go to the spy cam room then?" I whisper. "Why didn't you just go to the spy cam room and delete footage of you killing him and then just make up a story about a robbery gone wrong?"_

" _Because his family wouldn't have believed me, and they would've found a way to dig up the footage eventually," Olga replied. "And besides, the servants and Harrison only knew where the spy cam rooms were, and they were under strict orders not to tell me..."_

" _What did you do?" I whispered then, my fingers knotting around themselves again as anxiety got the better of me. "When Harrison threatened to do god knows what to Eilis, what did you do?"_

" _I couldn't let him do it," she whispered. "I told him to come to bed... I told him I would let him do whatever he wanted to me. As long as he didn't touch Eilis, I knew things would work out..."_

" _You let him...?" I say, unable to say the word._

 _Olga nods. "Yes."_

" _Why?" I whispered._

 _Olga raised her eyes to mine, a sad smile upon her face as her tears continued to fall upon her cheeks. "When you're a mother, you'll do anything to protect your children," she replied simply. "I couldn't let him hurt Eilis... I just hope she doesn't remember any of what could have happened, or what did..."_

" _Did Harrison ever—?"_

" _No," Olga replied. "No, I always got there in time to make sure he did whatever it was he wanted to her, to me."_

" _You took the abuse to protect Eilis," I whispered. "But wait... Wouldn't Harrison ever hurt Osias?"_

 _Olga shakes her head. "No. He's never too blackout not to ascertain what Osias is —a son. He would never hurt his son."_

 _I nodded, although I was not entirely sure Olga really knew her soon-to-be ex-husband at all._

. . .

I had arranged to go and see Olga and Eilis in Los Angeles for three weeks in August, so I did my best to work double-time as July went on. As the head of the days turned into warm nights, I found myself considering showing up in New York for the umpteenth time. Shaking my head, I forced the thought from my mind; since Arnold had not written me back, I concluded that he did not want to write anymore, and I have to accept that. My lies had managed to tangle themselves into an unrecognizable web, and I now had to face the facts.

I was approved for the time off in the first week of August, and as I left work that Thursday night, I officially had seventy-two hours left before I was due to leave for the airport. I drove into the attached garage of the apartment building and went inside, saying goodnight to Christina as I headed upstairs. Heading inside, I decided to crash early that night and get an early start tomorrow. The plan was to sleep all day Friday—virtually, anyhow—and then to spend all Saturday cleaning the apartment, so as it was clean when I came back. Then, all of Sunday was to be spent relaxing and packing before the big trip. I found I was actually looking forward to the trip this time around, as Eilis was now four-years-old and would likely be running around spouting English or Mandarin or whatever other language Olga was having her daughter learn that week.

I went online to have a package delivered to me by Saturday, of a little gift for Eilis and another for Olga, which would fit into my suitcase. I wanted to thank them for their generous hospitality towards me, as I knew that none of it was absolutely necessary. Although Olga and I had taken years to truly see eye to eye with one another, I was pleased that, at long last, such a situation had come to pass after all these years. Now that Olga had Eilis, she was getting over her baby fixation upon me and transferring it to her daughter, and yet I hoped that it did not last forever, like when Eilis went to college.

With still silence coming from Arnold, I gathered my things together and began my final preparations for my departure to Los Angeles. I was due to leave on a three o'clock plane the following afternoon, so after dining on Chinese takeout and binge-watching some Netflix, I crashed a little after midnight. My alarm was set for eleven-thirty the following morning, and I gathered and organized my various documentation—including driver's license, ticket, and boarding pass—and placed them upon the kitchen island, ready to take upon my departure. After an early lunch, I surveyed my now-clean apartment briefly, mulling over what could be done next. I'd already filled out the form for all incoming mail to come to Olga's address, but decided to head downstairs anyhow, so as to do a final once-over of my mailbox.

I waved at Christina as I walked through the lobby, making my way over to the hallway of mailboxes and using my key to unlock the small rectangular space. I looked through the false credit cards, making a note to take them upstairs and to cut them up before my ride to the airport arrived. Finally, at the bottom of the pile, I was shocked when my heart nearly stopped within my chest when I saw a letter from Arnold. Hands shaking, I gripped it tightly in my hand, locking up the mailbox and dashing back upstairs. The elevator couldn't go fast enough, and as I looked at his handwriting on the outside of the envelope, I detected anxiety within every stroke of the pen, and it worried me.

Flying from the elevator, I hurried down the hallway and ran for my apartment door, unlocking it quickly and stepping inside. Shutting the door behind me, I made quick work of locking it as well, and advanced upon the kitchen island, where I'd left my paperwork. Managing to rip open the letter without doing any damage to the piece of paper inside, I saw that it had been written on lined paper, and wondered then if it was written in haste. Carefully, I unfolded it, knowing that nothing could be good at this point, but forced all the bad thoughts from my mind as I looked down at the pen strokes.

 _I understand why you didn't tell me. I don't know what I would've done, if the roles were reversed. Likely, however, I wouldn't have waited as long as you did. I will let you know if and when I want to write again._

My heart spasmed then, and a small gasp escaped from my throat as I attempted not to sob. I covered my mouth then, not wanting my neighbors to think I was even crazier than I already was. I knew he had every right to be mad at me—the rational part of me knew that. But I couldn't help but think that this—all of it—could've been avoided if I wasn't such a goddamn coward. Nevertheless, I folded up the letter and walked back into my bedroom, in what turned out to be one of the longest walks of my life. Crossing the space, I put it into the desk where I'd kept all of my correspondence with Arnold, and now realized that there was some bad mixed in with the good.

I saw that it was encroaching on one o'clock then, so I decided to just pick at spot to stare at one the wall until I could leave for the airport. The walls of my bedroom were a coral pink, and while I'd never liked it myself, the seamlessness and simplicity of the color took me away, far away, from everything. I imagined a coral reef, deep beneath the ocean's surface, waving back and forth as a deep-sea current attempted to move it from its rock. I thought of slipping beneath the ocean waves, and obliterating everything in my psyche, just slipping underneath the depths, and having the salt water fill my lungs, the blackness that would likely follow next, overtaking my vision, and then nothing, nothing...

. . .

The notion that autumn had begun and that I would no longer have to make the trek to school was a god-send. I was relieved to know that footage had been found of Dr. Crawford, and that Jane and the distinguished members of the school board had seen fit to fire him. Many others came forward, telling about past experiences that they'd had with him, and although I had not been named in what I believed was the latest attack, I felt part of a movement. It was not as grand a scale as the women's marches had been, but it was something, and I knew then that it had to be something great in Hillwood history—young woman and girls standing up and taking a stand against men attempting to beat us down.

Although she was not back on a permanent basis, Samantha was at work a few times a week. She and Greg had decided that, due to my assistant hostess duties, that it was only appropriate that I take over as interim hostess in her absence. It meant five more dollars an hour, which I was not upset about, and I was pleased that the both of them admired my work output. Halloween arrived during one of these life-changing conversations, and Samantha was only too pleased to tell me of the party that Tess had been invited to, and Willy's excitement to go trick-or-treating on that night. The restaurant closed early that night, after little kids came by with their goodie bags around four o'clock, and then we closed at four thirty, so there was no dinner rush to worry about.

"I still can't believe it's Tess's first Halloween party," she said quietly. "I'm going to drop her off, take Willy trick-or-treating, and then come back and hang out with all the other moms."

"Looking forward to that?" I ask her.

"Yeah. The parents at Tess's school are really nice. They've been so considerate, in light of everything with Chad."

"How is Chad?" I asked, curling my lip to let her know that I am being sarcastic when it comes to his well-being.

Samantha laughs. "He and Ruby eloped in Lake Tahoe last week," she replies, and my brows shoot upwards. "Yeah, I know."

"How are you handling it?"

She sighed. "Well, I thought when I heard the news, I'd be enraged, but actually I'm all right. I think it's going to be okay."

"And Tess and Willy? Do they know about it?"

"Yes... In point of fact, I had to tell them that, and that they won't be seeing as much of their dad in the future, unfortunately for them... I mean, he may have treated me and our family unit like garbage, but he ended up being a really good father, so I'm sorry to see him go for their sake..."

"Why isn't he going to be seeing a lot of them?" I asked, immediately suspecting that Ruby was behind such a request.

"Because Ruby has announced her pregnancy all over social media and I guess she wants Chad all to herself. Hey," she says with a little shrug, "at least he put it in writing, because now I've got full custody."

"That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

She sighs. "It was—well, it is. But it's complicated, Helga, all of it..."

"Why is it complicated?"

"Well, because Chad... Well, Chad strayed about six months before we were married, and the engagement and everything was called off..."

"I don't understand."

"Ruby—she's worked with him for a long time and her...erm, charms...were very difficult for him to resist, I'm afraid."

"But you said you were living together, and that you got pregnant with Tess, and then you decided to get married—"

She sighs. "I guess I was just trying to make myself feel better. I made one mistake while Chad was off with Ruby that first time—although, at this point, I'm not even sure how many times there were..."

"What mistake?"

Samantha's shoulders slacked then, and I knew it was a difficult thing for her to talk about with anyone, let alone with me. "Tony was in town for business and he gave me a call. I was single—because of what Chad was up to—and he heard that the wedding was off. I told him he was right, and we went out for dinner. One very expensive bottle of wine and some oysters later..."

"Samantha...?"

"I never liked the taste of oysters," she said quietly. "A food you actually had to slurp, and _they_ were an aphrodisiac?" she said, wrinkling her nose. "Please... Well, I found out I was pregnant, and I gave Chad a call to let him know, because Tony had already left town and I was convinced it was Chad's baby. Chad came over the night after I'd told him, with a ring, a bouquet of roses, and a thousand apologies, and I stupidly listened. Since I thought that Tess was his, I thought it would be better if I married her father. So, we got back together, re-planned everything, and then we got married."

"Were you still in love with him?"

Samantha sighed. "I thought I was, and at the time, it was enough. It was enough for me to think I was in love with him, and then when we had Tess, she looked enough like my side of the family for Chad not to second-guess it. And then we had Willy, and things seemed better, but I think it's why Chad cheated again with Ruby, because he slowly but surely figured out that Tess wasn't his. He never faulted her for it, though—never let on to her personally that she wasn't his. I can never thank him enough for that, although when she does finally know the truth, I can't say what will happen."

I nodded. "Well, I don't blame you," I told her, and her green eyes flashed to mine in a moment of hope. "I have no reason to. It's your personal life, and although we share ours with one another, that's something you could decide whether or not you wanted to tell me."

She smiled. "Well, I just hope that she's not traumatized because of it, or that she doesn't ultimately hate me for it..."

"She won't," I reply. "Let her know when she's old enough to understand the frame of mine you were in. That's what I would do."

"Thanks for the advice."

"Don't mention it," I tell her.

. . .

A week before Christmas, there was a knock on my door and I immediately checked the spyhole before I answered it. Seeing Gerald on my threshold was definitely something new but, due to his questionable behavior of late, I was worried about just letting him in. I made a grab for a baseball bat from the umbrella stand just in case, before unlocking both locks on the door. Opening it, I stood on the threshold, just looking at him.

"Hello, Gerald."

"Hey-yyy H-Helga," he replied, his speech slurred then, as he removed a flask from his leather jacket. "Long tiiime...no seee."

I nodded. "Yeah. I got my GED, and I'm working now..."

"I heeeaaard from Phoeeebeee," he continued, putting the flask to his lips and drinking deeply from it. "Congratulations!" he said, jutting out his flask as if it was a crystal-cut champagne flute.

I felt my nose wrinkling at the stench of cheap whisky on his breath, and instantly stepped back from the stream of it into my nostrils. "Thank you, Gerald. That's nice of you to say."

"You're welcome!"

I pursed my lips, not wanting to be rude, but also wanting to get to the bottom of the conversation he intended upon having with me. "Is there anything else I can help you with, Gerald?" I asked.

"You can stop lying to my best friend."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"He has a right to know, you know," he said, his speech clearing up a bit in his anger as he brought his flask back to his lips again. "He has a right to know that the competition people wanted..." He hiccupped. "...you first."

I sighed. "Gerald, I know that you care a lot about Arnold, but the correspondence between him and me is none of your business. I know you mean well, Gerald, and you have his best interests at heart, but you have to understand that he and I need to figure this out on our own."

"He's my best friend, Helga," Gerald slurred, "and he's only your ex-boyfriend—I said _ex_ -boyfriend, Helga, ex. Meaning it's over, and that it's all in the past. _You_ broke up with him, remember?"

I pursed my lips in an effort to stop the stream of insults that I desperately wanted to throw at him. "Yes, Gerald, I'm well aware."

"And now you're just sitting around here waiting for him to come back home—back to you. Did you maybe understand that this lie, combined with you breaking things off like that, might prove to be just a little too much for him?"

I narrowed my eyes at Gerald. "Did you just come here to yell at me, or was there another purpose of this visit?" I ask levelly.

"I came here to defend my best friend, and to yell at you for completely ruining my life!" he cried out, so much so that I was afraid that my neighbors would complain about the noise-level. "You made Phoebe break up with me—"

"No, I didn't," I interrupt him, and he seems shocked that I would dare step on his words like that. "Phoebe broke up with you because she couldn't trust you. Phoebe broke up with you because you betrayed me, _her_ best friend. Phoebe broke up with you because of _you_ , Gerald."

Gerald reaches out then and punches me in the jaw. He looks shocked for a moment then, and then he curls his hand back into a fist and punches me on the other side for good measure. Without thinking about it, I feel my hands gripping the baseball bat then and I bring it out from around my back. Quick as lightening, I swing it as fast as I could and get him right in the knee with a loud _thwack_! I dash back inside then, slamming the door behind me as I hear Gerald's moans of pain from the other side of it, and run to the island, where I have left my phone. I dial the three numbers, my hand shaking.

"9-1-1, what is your emergency?" says the drone of a woman on the other end of the phone.

"Please help me," I whispered. "My friend is drunk. My friend showed up at my house, yelled at me, and then assaulted me. I... I hit him with a baseball bat, and now he's outside my door, shouting profanity..."

"Give me your address, miss," the woman replied.

"Yeah... O-okay," I said, turning back to the door, the sound of Gerald's wails doing nothing to help the situation.

. . .

"So, the police just showed up?" Samantha asked.

I nodded. "Yeah, pretty much."

"Did you find out what was going to happen to him?"

I smoothed the stack of menus before me, which always seemed to want to get jumbled and out of place. It had been a week since Gerald had come to my apartment unannounced, and I was still shaken from the ordeal, but relieved that it was the final working day before our Christmas holiday break. I had heard that he had gotten himself a place in rehab, and that he had finally admitted that he had a problem with alcohol. "Rehab," I reply, leaving the menus alone, knowing a lost cause when I saw one. "He's admitted to having a problem and now, hopefully, he can get the help he needs."

"Hopefully, yes."

I turned to Samantha and smiled. "What do the kids want for Christmas?" I want to know, wanting to change the subject.

"Tess wants a cell phone, and Willy wants some Lego sets."

I nodded. "Sounds wonderfully typical."

"Wonderfully," Samantha replied, checked her watch. "Break time for me," she said, getting to her feet and making a grab for her cane. "I'm going to go and get a snack. Want me to order you anything?"

I shake my head. "I'm fine, thank you." I shuffled the menus as she walked away, and did some quick tidying upon the desktop of the hostess desk. The door opened beside me, and I made a grab for the stack of menus, turning to see who had come into the restaurant. "Welcome to Hillwood Hideaway—how many people in your party today, sir?"

"It's Tony," came the reply from the man who'd entered. Six-foot-two, raven-black hair, charismatic blue eyes—he was a knockout. "Sorry to be a bother, but is Samantha Showalter here?"

" _The_ Tony?" I said before I could stop myself, and I quickly slapped a hand over my own mouth.

He raised an eyebrow. "You've heard of me?"

I nodded. "Of course—Samantha and I discuss you at least once a week. I'm her friend, Helga."

"You discuss me?" he asked, reaching into his pocket then and producing an important-looking piece of paper with a golden sticker. "Well, do you think you can explain this to me?" he wanted to know, holding it out.

I took it from him, the words CERTIFICATE OF LIVE BIRTH staring back at me, with the name Contessa Kate Davies staring back at me, and the line following the word FATHER saying Anthony Thomas Davies. My eyebrows shot upwards then, and I wonder how long the birth certificate had said that. "I personally can't, although I did know the information," I say, and Tony swears in surprise under his breath, and I raise my eyes to his.

"Sorry, sorry," he says. "Is Samantha here?"

I nodded. "Yeah," I reply, handing the paper back to him and making my way back towards the kitchens. Stepping inside, I nod at the various cooks and head back to the staff area, where Samantha is sitting with a half-eaten club sandwich. "Visitor for you."

Samantha raises her eyebrows, swallowing her bite before wrapping it up. "Who was it?" she wanted to know.

"Come and see," I reply.

We walk out of the staff area together, and back through the kitchen, where we find Tony, still standing by the hostess desk. I give them a little space, but know that I cannot leave my post entirely. I stand off to one side, not knowing what to expect from this impromptu reunion.

"Samantha."

"Tony."

"I got a call from Greg the other day," he said, nodding to her cane. "He said that you had a relapse. I'm sorry to hear it."

"Why didn't you show up immediately, if you were going to show up at all?"

Tony sighed. "I was in Italy when I got the call," he replies. "And no, I wasn't at the villa, I was on business."

"Sure," she replied.

"I got this in the mail," he says, unfolding Tess's birth certificate and handing it over to her, and she visibly stiffened.

"That must've been Chad," she said quietly.

"Is Tess mine, Samantha?"

"According to the government, apparently so."

Tony blinks, taking back the birth certificate. "Well, yes, I understand that. But, I mean... Physically speaking?"

"You don't have to do this," she said, her voice shaking then. "You don't have to come waltzing in here, as if nothing's happened, to stake your claim on a child that you didn't even know was yours."

"Samantha—"

"No. You broke my heart, Tony. The way you ended things—I never even wanted to get married after that."

"Hey, now—"

"You let your father talk you out of our engagement," she said, her voice coming undone right before my very eyes. "He had you convinced that we were too young, and that I was after your money, and that we'd never finish college, because I was likely to get pregnant before we even started."

"I know."

"Did you happen to mention to your father that we hadn't done anything?!" she cried out then, angry now. "Apart from prom night, just weeks before graduation and your proposal, there was nothing?"

"Yes, I told him."

"And what did he say to that?"

"You know how he was—he didn't believe that birth control pills worked and that condoms were poisonous. He thought you were going to get pregnant despite the fact that we took precautions, and that you needed to take Plan B, or go to the hospital..."

"What are you saying?"

"My father was convinced you were pregnant, and that you needed to... That you needed to..."

"Say it," Samantha said, her voice hinging somewhere between devastation and pure, unadulterated rage. "Say it, Tony."

"That you needed to have things taken care of."

"Even if I did, it would've been his grandchild!" she sputtered.

"Don't you think I know that?"

She crossed her arms. "At least you could've had the decency to end things with me face to face."

"I couldn't."

"What do you mean?" Samantha demanded. "I'm not some frail flower, Tony! I'm a woman!"

He shook his head. "No, I literally couldn't."

"What are you talking about?"

"Dad beat me to a bloody pulp, Samantha!" Tony thundered. " _That's_ why I couldn't end things face to face with you! I told him I was going to marry you no matter what, and he beat me!"

"Tony..."

"It's true—ask my mother, the saint of a woman," he said quietly. "That's why Dad was thrown in jail, and that's why I didn't go to college, because the company wanted me to take over for him."

Samantha hesitated for a moment. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that," she replied, and I knew then that she was very sorry. "But that doesn't excuse the rest of the story, Tony, it doesn't."

"Samantha, please don't be like this—"

"I waited five days, Tony," she said, her voice hitching on a sob. "I waited five days after I found out I was pregnant for you to call me back. Why didn't you call me back?" she whispered.

"I don't know," he replied. "I was going to, Samantha, I really was, but then I got the news that you got married, and I knew it was too late."

She sighed. "Tess is yours."

His eyes lit up then. "She is?"

Samantha nodded. "Yes. Yes, she's yours."

Tony stepped forward then, but thought better of it and stood back. "I just want you to know, Samantha, I didn't only come here for Tess and to be her father. I came here for you, too."

She lowered her eyes. "It's a little soon to even consider that."

"I'll wait."

Samantha looked up. "What?"

"I'll wait," he repeated. "I'll wait for as long as it takes. I know life is short, Samantha, and I know that I've messed up—we both have. All I know is that I want to see where this journey takes us."

Samantha smiled a little then. "I can accept that."

I stepped away from everything then, walking back towards the kitchen and making my way towards the staff lounge. I walked over to where my locker was and unlocked the combination lock, my hands shaking as I did so. Getting out my phone, I hastily dialed the numbers that could make or break everything in life as it was, and I knew that it was ill-advised. But what else could I do?

" _Hello. You've reached Arnold Shortman's cell phone. I'm either too hard at work to answer, or I deliberately let the phone ring six times to make it look like I'm not really around, but am. If you have something important to say, then say it. I'll call you back if I feel like there's something to talk about. Bye._ "

Shaking, I parted my lips to say something, but no sound would come out. I lowered my phone then, wanting more than anything to break the silence as the beep resounded in my eyes, but I could make no move to do so. Shaking my head in disappointment, I pressed the "End" button before I said anything stupid. I locked my phone back up in my locker, running my hands over the grating, and bit my lower lip, calling myself every name in the book.

"What's the matter with you?" I whispered to myself. "Why do you have to be such a goddamn coward?"

TO BE CONTINUED


	10. Bittersweet Symphony

Chapter Twenty: Bittersweet Symphony

The rest of December melted away, and soon the new year had begun, and I was pleased when the remainder of winter faded away like a forgotten dream. I was spending nearly all my time working, and was barely noticing that Arnold still hadn't opened the conversation back up—barely. With Samantha testing the waters on her relationship with Tony, and considering telling Tess the truth that he was her father, and not Chad, I had my hands full with work.

Olga suggested that she come over in the summer, due to my eighteenth birthday at the end of March, and how well Eilis was doing with her treatment. I was pleased that she suggested it, as I was in the process of turning my study room into a guest bedroom for anyone who would want to crash there. Since I had done all my school assignments in my bedroom anyway, and school no longer a priority, I decided that it was the perfect opportunity to make up a guest bedroom. I spent the first weeks of March searching for furniture, and managed to find a bed frame, a wardrobe, and a dresser. The bedroom itself already had a built-in closet, and I would leave the desk that had been there when I moved in.

The mattress itself was not difficult to find, and soon I had a queen-sized bed along with all the other new furniture inside the room, and then it was time to decide on some appropriate bedding. I ultimately decided on a powder blue set, along with a matching goose down comforter. The top pillow shams were powder blue and lace, while the other ones were just standard powder blue. Phoebe came to help me set up the room, and she even brought over some dried, powder-blue hydrangeas in a crystal bud vase to place on the shelf atop the desk. She also brought over two matching nightstands, which I was very grateful for, and I made a mental note to go out and get some lamps in the coming weeks.

"Have you spoken to him?" I asked casually as I dusted the furniture.

Phoebe hesitated for a moment from where she stood, hanging the powder blue curtains on the bay window behind the desk. "He's called me."

I nodded. "How does he sound?" I want to know.

"Better," she replies, finishing the hanging and getting down carefully. "He says that he's on the eighth step now."

"That's making amends, right?" I asked.

She nodded. "Yes, after making a list of everyone he's harmed. He started with me, funnily enough," she continues, hiding her face by looking out the window. "I know he knows that, at this point, we can't reconcile, as it could be damaging to his treatment process, but..."

I smooth finish dusting one picture I'd hung above the bed—a black and white photograph of a vase of flowers, whose petals have come down upon the table and are slowly wilting. "Do you want to get back together with him?"

"I don't know," she admits, her typically soft voice even more quiet, almost as if she is wrestling with her better judgement. "At this point, no—I don't want to keep him from his treatment, but..."

"But what?" I ask, lowering the duster.

Phoebe turns to look at me. "I don't know. It's just hard."

"What's so hard?"

She sighs; her arms are crossed, wrapped around her thin frame, her hands gripping the opposite elbow. "It's hard because I'm in love with him, and I hated what he became, and even if we were to give it another shot..." She shrugs. "I'm afraid of what could happen if he ever..."

I lower the duster then, crossing the room and hugging her. "I want you to listen to me, Phoebe," I tell her gently before pulling back. "That Gerald—the Gerald who had to go to rehab—that wasn't Gerald. That was someone else. The Gerald that we know is kind, funny, respectful... The Gerald that we know is madly in love with you, and he would never do anything to deliberately hurt you."

Phoebe nodded, dashing her tears away. "I know that—on some level, I know that, and I'm glad I know that. But..."

"But what?"

She sighed, tucking her raven hair behind one ear and standing back on her heels, a contemplative look on her face. "It's all so different now..."

"How so?"

"Gerald, Arnold, and I are all eighteen, and you'll be so in just a couple of weeks. I guess what I'm trying to say is, how long is considered acceptable to hold onto the past, and when can you let go? When can you let go and hope for the future and just put the past behind you?"

I felt my lips turning into a flat line. "Yeah, I guess you're right. We're all growing up, and decisions have to be made..."

"What's it going to be?" she whispered, almost to herself. "What will the eventual outcome of all this turn out to be?"

. . .

I worked a ten-hour shift on my birthday, but was pleased when Samantha brought me a pack of chocolate cigars as a joke. She also brought me a copy of her favorite book at eighteen, _The Perks of Being a Wallflower_ , which I'd wanted to read but hadn't had the opportunity to do so yet. I thanked her for the gifts, and Greg for his gift of a fifty-dollar bonus. It was after eight o'clock when Greg let me out early, and I was relieved to finally have some me time.

When I arrived back at my apartment, I was surprised to receive a text from Miles and Stella, wondering when I was getting off work. I told them I just got in, and they asked if they could come over for a few minutes, and I accepted. I went into the kitchen to rustle up a cheese, meat, and cracker platter, and just as I finished putting it together, the pair of them arrived. I went to the front door when it rang and automatically let them inside, embracing the pair of them in turn and inviting them inside.

"You didn't have to put all this together," Stella scolded gently as they stepped into the kitchen, seeing the platter.

I shrugged. "I like to occupy my hands. It's a force of habit."

" _I'm_ not complaining," Miles joked, snagging a piece of black forest ham and using it as a decoration between a wedge of swiss cheese and a cracker.

I smirked and turned to Stella. "Something to drink?"

"Have any of that lemon-flavored Perrier I love so much?"

"As a matter of fact," I say, digging into my fridge and taking out an unopened bottle, "I have some from the last time you came over."

"I'll have some, too, thanks," Miles said, and Stella gave him a look.

I let out a laugh, going into the glass cabinet and taking down two tumbler glasses and pouring in generous amounts of Perrier. "There you go," I say, taking note of the floral-pattered, pink-bowed, rectangular-shaped box in Stella's hand. "What's that?" I asked.

"Oh!" she said, moving it around so that I could see it, and also noticed a pink envelope tucked into the bow. "For your birthday."

I smiled then, returning the bottle to the fridge before I washed my hands and took it from her. I pulled the bow out of the way, before opening the envelope and reading the words of a fond nature, before tearing into the paper. It looked like a journal, and for a moment, I wondered if it was another one for me to write in, but this one was different. It was slightly battered and worn, and as I opened it, I saw the dates were from over a decade before. "What is this?" I asked.

"My journal, that I kept when Miles and I were working in San Lorenzo, before the sleeping sickness took over," she replied. "I wrote in it every day, mostly notes about the village or hoped-for treatments, their traditions and ceremonies, but, of course, of...of Arnold."

I looked up at her. "You wrote about Arnold?"

She nodded. "Yes." She hesitated for a moment. "He gave us a call the other day, you know."

I lowered my eyes. "Oh."

"He told us about the competition," she went on softly. "And about how they originally wanted you, but you convinced them to take him..."

I leaned back against the island, clutching Stella's diary in my arms. "Yeah. Yeah, that's all true."

"We're not judging you," Miles put in. "We'd never do that, Helga. In fact, we think that it was both selfless and selfish at the same time."

I locked my eyes with his. "What?"

"Well, on the one hand, you could have gone after your dreams, but you put our son and his dreams first," Miles said.

"However, your selfless act _was_ putting Arnold and his dreams first," Stella said quickly. "It was a sticky situation, and it was your choice how you were ultimately going to navigate it."

I sighed. "Well, I guess I never thought of that before." I opened the diary then to a random page. " _No more effective treatments found—going to go deeper into the jungle tomorrow to try and find another kind of berry to help. All I'm thinking about is the notion that Arnold is getting older, and we're missing all these things that a young boy his age is doing. Does he have a best friend? A favorite school subject? A favorite book? A favorite sport? A girl in his life? Miles says he's too young to consider love like that, but he and I were young once, too..._ "

"You need to be in charge of your own life, Helga," Miles said, snapping me out of it as I looked up at him. "I know it's a scary thing to think about, but one of these days, you could wake up, forty-years-old, and wish to be the age you are now, where big decisions matter like this."

I nodded. "You're right," I tell him.

We continued to speak for another twenty minutes, and then they said it was getting late, and I walked out with them. I turned and went back into the kitchen, where I tidied up the small mess that had been left atop the island. Once everything was in its proper place, I picked up the journal again, gazing at the quick and precise handwriting that was Stella, and then, allowed myself to trace the name of her son, of Arnold... Arnold!

My mind suddenly going a mile a minute, I ran back into my bedroom and threw open the closet doors. There, waiting for me, was the box that he had tried to give me so long ago, and the one Miles and Stella brought back to me. Barely having to stand on my toes for it now, I reached up and brought it down, the Sharpie written on it that of a child now, the words: "Do Not Open Until 03/23/24" staring back at me, and I found myself smiling and laughing at all the work and planning that had gone into this.

Setting it down onto the ground, I went back into the kitchen and made a grab for my box opener, and, once back, knelt on the floor and cut through the duct tape that was over four years old. It was a bit sticky and gunky, but the box opener did the trick, and I slowly opened the box. On top was a piece of fabric to conceal what the box held, and on top of that was a letter, with my name, Helga, written in the center of the surface. I reached down carefully, picking up the envelope and gazing down at it momentarily before gently tearing into it.

 _Dear Helga,_

 _You are finally eighteen-years-old, and, that means, you're finally allowed to see all of this. As I'm writing this before Mom and Dad let me know that it's time to go to the airport for New York, I wanted to tell you about an interesting phone call I received this morning from the competition headquarters._

 _They told me that I was not the first person chosen for this competition, and instead, another girl from Hillwood was chosen. Despite my prying, they wouldn't tell me who the girl was, and all I managed to get from it was that they must've loved me very much. I knew from the moment they said that it was someone else, that it had to be you._

 _I know why you didn't tell me that it was you, Helga. I know why, and it's because you wanted me to choose you instead of my career and future life. The point is, I will always choose you, Helga, because it has always been you. It has always been you from the beginning, and here lies the proof._

 _See you on the other side._

 _Your friend,_

 _Arnold Shortman_

I set the card aside then and reached out to move the piece of fabric, the final thing that separated me from Arnold—figuratively speaking. Beneath the fabric were several folders—marked from preschool to fifth grade—and I felt my brows coming together at that. Looking through them, I found that preschool contained many art projects, and they all featured me in some way, shape or form, in as many mediums as you could consider. The kindergarten folder also contained a vast array of art projects, while first through fifth grade contained that, as well as written pieces of work as well. They were all about me, but the final one, located just beneath the fifth-grade folder, was the final assignment for eighth grade—an essay about someone we admired.

The header said, _Helga Pataki_ , and within it was five pages, ending with a final paragraph that tugged at my heart.

 _Why did I choose to write about Helga Geraldine Pataki? The answer is simple. I discovered that she was in love with me when we were ten-years-old, and part of me wondered why she had taken that long to tell me about it. For me, the love began because of her tough exterior when we were four, when I had a feeling that she had feelings for me, but wouldn't admit them. And I can understand why she wouldn't—given her questionable upbringing, it was unlikely that she had the tools to cope with her feelings for me. I understand that she likely believed that I had a thing for Lila Sawyer, but that wasn't it—I had a thing for making Helga jealous in the hopes that she was realize that I was in love with her, and still am, will likely remain so for the rest of my life..._

. . .

I found I was shell-shocked from Arnold's own revelation, so much so that I promptly returned the box to the closet and couldn't bear to look at it. Work treaded on, and April came and went, as did most of the month of May. When Rhonda called me to let me know that the senior class was invited over to her place for another party, I decided to take the plunge and attend. _Drinking to oblivion is not on the menu_ , I decided as I drove over there the night of the party, _but having fun is always an option_.

I arrived at the party when it was in full-swing, and Rhonda informed me that nearly everyone had arrived. I stood back in a corner, sipping on a glass of water that I was sure wasn't vodka, clad in a strapless pink dress. I watched Rhonda and Harold laughing together, and noticed Phoebe tentatively speaking with Gerald, and I hoped against hope that they could work some things out. Gerald had called me after I'd looked in Arnold's box and made amends with me, and I forgave him, knowing that it had been the right thing to do.

It was when Phoebe decided to go up to the roof, that Gerald looked as if he was having a hard time dealing with the party. After making the rounds with everyone, I went back to Gerald, and immediately deduced that he was drunk. Frantic, I took him back towards the bathroom, where he was immediately sick in the toilet, and all I could do was stand there and make sure he was okay. With his teenaged sobriety efforts now out the window, I considered finding him a meeting, but I didn't know if teenagers had different meetings than adults, leading me to believe that I was way out of my element here.

"Are you okay?" I asked him after a few minutes.

Gerald got to his feet, his stance shaky as he walked towards the bathroom sink and washed his mouth out. He then dug into a hidden drawer—where Rhonda kept spare toothbrushes for guests—and brushed his teeth. "Yeah," he replied, splashing water onto his face. "I... I think I'll be fine."

I nodded. "We can stay here for a while, until you sober up," I tell him gently. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to be left alone right now."

Gerald chuckled darkly. "No. No, you're probably right."

"Did something happen?" I ask him. "Did something happen to trigger you to start drinking again?"

"Phoebe said she... She said she wasn't ready to get back together yet...I don't really know. I think something must've snapped..."

"You need to be careful about that," I tell him. "You can't go snapping off whenever you feel like it. I know teenagers are reportedly reckless and impulsive but don't be like that, Gerald," I say as he turns to look at me. "Don't be like that, because you're better than that. You are."

Gerald looked unsure. "Do you think so?"

I nodded. "I do. And I'm not just saying that because I've known you for fourteen years, Gerald. I'm saying it because it's true. I'm saying it because I know the real you—not the person who drinks and acts this way. You're better than that, Gerald, and the sooner you see that for yourself, the sooner you'll find a way out of this hole you've buried yourself inside."

Gerald smiled. "Thanks. I needed to hear that."

"Don't mention it," I reply, returning his smile.

"I guess I just get scared sometimes, that I'm not good enough..."

"We all get scared," I tell him gently. "It doesn't give us clearance to scare the people who care about us, and potentially wreck our lives in the process. Don't let yourself go down this path, Gerald. Don't."

"It's nice to know that somebody cares."

"Of course I care," I reply. "You're my friend. Friends care."

"I'm glad," he replies, stepping closer. "I'm glad you care."

"Gerald?"

"I can't tell you how glad I am that you care," he said then, reaching out and taking ahold of my arms.

"Gerald, what are you—?" I say, but that is all I manage to get out, because Gerald smashes his mouth on mine, kissing me. My eyes fly open in surprise, and I do not melt into the kiss, as one should. Instead, I stand there, stiff as a board, still as a statue, and it is then that I see over Gerald's shoulder. I manage to shove him off of me, and I shake my head at the person standing in the doorway—the door that we had closed but now seemed to find itself open. "I... We... I didn't want him to..." I sputter, as Gerald turns around.

"Phoebe..." He says, his voice broken.

"You can go to hell!" she screams, turning around and running around and away from the scene.

"Phoebe, wait!" Gerald cried out, running after her.

I turned then and looked at myself in the mirror, and knew then that a lifetime of decisions were laid out in front of me. "Stop lying to yourself," I say to my reflection, shaking my head. "Stop being a coward and just admit it—you're in love with him, and you have to let him know that."

I left the bathroom immediately then, making my way into Rhonda's bedroom and grabbing my purse and running out of there. I left her house and got into my car, knowing that I had to make things right with everyone and everything. It was time to stop running away from my problems, and to face them head-on. I was no longer going to hide away from everyone and just make believe that I was living—I was surviving, and now, now I wanted to live.

. . .

My first step was giving notice at work, and Greg took the whole conversation very well, and decided to begin training Meryl, the other waitress, to take over my position as assistant hostess. I said goodbye to Samantha and Tony, who were now a full-fledged couple, trying to make everything work between them. I was happy for them, and as I returned to my apartment early that evening, I booked the first flight out to New York I could, giving me a couple of days to work out my schedule and to get everything done.

Next, I went online to the Columbia University website, where I picked a program of study, and wrote down my prior institutions of learning, plus an essay, and the reason behind my leaving Hillwood Academy. I was unflinchingly honest, almost to a fault, and yet I knew that, by putting my past behind me, I simply had to be. I was through lying for my own selfish reasons, and decided, for the first time, to stop concealing myself from the world and to just be myself. When there was a knock at my door the following afternoon, however, I knew that I'd somehow managed to forget something.

"Olga!" I said, my voice full of surprise as my older sister hesitated on the threshold of my apartment. "Eilis!" I cried out, taking ahold of my niece and holding her close. "Come in!"

"We said today," Olga told me, stepping inside. "I mean, unless you somehow managed to double-book yourself..."

"Oh, that," I said, setting Eilis down on the living room rug, where she could look out the window and comment on the cars driving by. "I'm actually in the process of getting my affairs in order. I'm going to New York."

"New York? Why?"

I smiled at Olga then, and found I could not stop smiling. "Because I'm in love with Arnold," I reply. "Greg, my boss, has connections in the Columbia University admissions department, and is using his pull to get me notified more quickly if I get a spot or not."

"Greg doesn't have ulterior motives, does he?"

I shake my head. "No. Besides, I think he has more of a thing for you, actually. He treats me like a little sister, really."

"How can he possibly have a thing for me?"

I give her a lopsided smile. "Because I may have been bragging about you for the last several months," I reply. "Actually, he wants to take you to dinner while you're in town, with Eilis, of course."

"I have a thing about Eilis meeting strange men, Helga..."

I nodded. "I know. But trust me on this, Olga. I know that Greg can be a little rough around the edges, but just give him a chance."

Olga sighed. "Okay. Fine, fine. I'll give him a chance."

"Good," I reply. "Now, I'm getting things all in order for my trip. Do you have that trench coat that I loaned you?"

Olga nodded. "Yeah, I brought it back for you... Why?"

"I just need it for my trip to New York," I reply. "Greg will come by to collect you in half an hour. Don't worry—you're just taking a walk to this bistro nearby," I said to her objections. "I have a few things to do outside the house," I tell her, and hand over a spare key I'd had made. "Put on something nice—Eilis, too—and have a good time, okay?"

Olga sighed. "Okay."

"Good girl," I said, turning to Eilis, who was watching the exchange. "Auntie Helga has to go out for a while, but I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Okay," Eilis said as I bent down kiss her forehead. "Bye-bye."

"Bye-bye," I said, waving to her and grinning at Olga before leaving the apartment and heading towards the elevators. I went down to the parking garage and got into my car, my mind already knowing the directions to my destination like the back of my hand as I drove out of there.

Phoebe's house looked just as I remembered it, and as I knocked at the door, I felt relief when Phoebe herself answered the door. She hesitated for a moment, and I wondered then if she was contemplating slamming the door on my face. She seemed to think better of it, however, and gestured towards the chairs upon her front patio.

"For a minute there, I was thinking you were going to slam the door on me," I said with a light chuckle as I sat down.

Phoebe sighed. "I considered it."

I nodded. "I understand."

"So, what's going on?" she asked.

I smiled at her. "I've applied for Columbia University, and as soon as I hear something good on that front, then I'm going to New York."

Phoebe smiled. "So, you're chasing Arnold?"

I nodded. "Yes. Now that I'm getting everything in order, it's time. I mean, you know what I saw in that box, Phoebe..."

"Helga, that was four years ago—"

"If it was real, it wouldn't just go away," I say.

Phoebe nods. "You're right. I know you're right."

I hesitate for a moment before speaking. "Listen, about what happened with Gerald at the party—"

Phoebe holds up her hand. "I know you were just trying to help him. Gerald got drunk, and I know he wouldn't have..." She sighed, calming herself for a moment before continuing. "He went back to rehab, and he's going to stay the summer before we go to college together."

"You're going to college together?"

"Well, we both got into the University of Hillwood, so yes," she replies. "I mean, it's going to take some time, but I think it'll ultimately work."

I smiled at her. "I'm glad."

"So am I," she says. "I want it to work, Helga. I really do."

I reach across the space between us and take her hand. "Keep the lines of communication open, Phoebe, if I do move to New York. I don't want you being a stranger. I mean that."

She nods. "That goes for you too, Helga."

We continued speaking for a few more minutes before I said goodbye and returned to my car. Forcing myself to remain calm, I drove down the street and around the corner, the familiar house where I'd spent my formative years coming into view. I parked my car and hesitated for a moment before forcing myself to get out and walk up the stairs. Knocking on the door, I was surprised when my father answered the door, and yet I found I almost couldn't speak.

"Hi, Dad," I said quietly.

"Hey, Helga."

Surprised that he called me by my name, I almost forgot what to say next. "Do you mind if I come in?"

"No," he said, standing back and allowing me inside. "Can I get you anything from the kitchen, or...?"

"No, thank you," I replied, stepping inside and looking into the living room. "Hey, Mom," I called, and, to my surprise, she actually switched off the T.V.

"Come in here, Helga."

I made my way into the living room, sitting upon the edge of one of the chairs, waiting for my father to come into the room. "I'm going to say something. You may not like it, but it needs to be said." I took a breath and, before either of them could stop me, I launched into my speech. "I had a terrible childhood. You constantly favored Olga over me, and made me feel like I was this unwanted mistake that you wanted to take back but couldn't. You ignored me and made me raise myself from the time I was a child, and allowed me to walk to preschool by myself, on my first day, all because Olga was playing the piano." I took another breath; I was on a roll. "I've mended fences with Olga, because she, too was a victim in all of this, whereas the pair of you were adults and knew better, but never stopped your ill treatment of me. That's why I came here," I said, surprised that I had never raised my voice to them as I got to my feet, "and now that I've said my piece, I'll leave on this note. I forgive both of you," I said, and the pair of them looked at one another before turning back to me. "I forgive both of you, but I'll never forget. Have a nice life," I said, before walking past Big Bob himself and out the front door, which I even had the nerve to slam behind me.

. . .

Once my acceptance to Columbia University came through, I was pleased that I didn't have to change my flight to New York. I packed up everything, and the things I couldn't pack, Olga had arranged for a storage unit for me. I didn't know when or if I would come back, but I knew that it would be good to have the apartment on hand just in case. I gave Phoebe my car to hold onto, and I knew she would take good care of it.

Sitting in the car, waiting for the traffic to subside just enough for me to get to the airport was an agonizing affair, but they finally got moving. When I arrived, I handed over all the proper documentation, and found I was growing anxious. I had booked a hotel for myself to keep my things until or unless I saw Arnold, and would stop there after touching down. I was permitted onto the plane after I was allowed to check my bag and go through security, and settled down into the seat, tucking my laptop case beneath it. I forced myself to remain calm as the plane then proceeded to prepare for takeoff, and yet my eyes felt heavier and heavier as we made our way into the air.

My eyes snapped open then when the pilot informed us passengers that we were landing in New York, and that it was just after eight o'clock. I got off the plane with the rest of the passengers and made my way through the airport, towards baggage claim. It was close to an hour from the airport to my hotel, giving me plenty of time to mentally prepare what I was going to do and say, once I would finally get to see Arnold. I got my suitcase from baggage claim and headed outside, towards where the pick-up area was, and hailed a cab for myself, giving the driver the address to my hotel.

I made small talk with the Italian-American man from Queens, who was very proud of his heritage, his wife of over twenty years, Rosie, and their four children —Joey Jr., Frankie, Sophia, and Charlotte. Once I arrived at my hotel, Joseph told me to be careful in New York, but not to forget to have fun. I thanked him for his kind words and got out of the cab, and was pleased when he got my suitcase out of the trunk for me, an action that got him a generous tip. I headed inside, giving my name to the concierge and waiting patiently for my room key.

I headed upstairs shortly thereafter, going to the third floor and heading directly towards my room. Quickly, I shut the door hauled my suitcase inside, plopping it onto my bed and digging through it. I managed to find my bag of makeup, as well as the trench coat I'd told Olga I'd wanted to borrow. Smoothing out its few wrinkles, I made quick work of taking off my traveling clothes and wrapping the trench coat around me. Then, making my way to the bathroom, I made quick work of brushing my teeth and putting on the makeup that Olga had picked out for me, before I gave myself a final look.

"Go get your man, Pataki," I told myself with a grin.

I left my hotel room, tucking the key into a pocket of my coat and heading back towards the elevator. I went inside directly and pressed the lobby button, feeling a surge of relief as the doors finally opened below. I stepped into the lobby, nodding to the concierge who had helped me just a few minutes ago as I stepped back out into the warm night. I thought of getting a cab, but thought better of it, even though my feet would pay for it in the morning, due to the black Prada pumps that Olga had bought me.

It must have been quite comical to see me like that, walking along the streets of New York, wearing that trench coat. But, again, this _was_ New York, after all—lots of interesting sights to see. The address of Arnold's off-campus apartment was written down on the piece of paper I clutched in my free hand, my handwriting hurried after the quick phone call I'd made to Gerald in rehab. He didn't know all the details—he didn't have to, really—but I could tell in his voice he was happy that I was going to see Arnold at last. It was a long time coming, and the time had now arrived to face my fear and use that courage that bubbled just beneath the surface to explode.

The few cracks upon the sidewalk did nothing to deter me, nor did the jagged edges which I managed not to trip over as I neared the building. Now all I had to do was walk through the lobby like I belonged there, and make my way up to the proper floor—the twentieth floor. My heart beat profusely in my chest, but I managed to get through the lobby of Arnold's building without incident and towards the elevator. I pressed the 'up' button, my heart beating in my ears as the elevator dinged and came to collect me.

Guided by the strength that Dr. Bliss had instilled in me as a child, and Olga as an adolescent, and Samantha as a young woman, I finally felt secure as the double doors dinged shut. Pressing the number twenty as I managed to keep my hand from shaking, I waited with baited breath to get to the correct floor. I crossed my fingers that Arnold would not only be home, but be willing to open the door for me as well. Once the doors dinged open again and as I stepped into the hallway—the plush carpet soothing my feet in these very posh but very uncomfortable black heels—I felt the last of my fear in my belly suddenly quell as I walked towards the correct door at the end of the hallway.

I made my hand into the customary fist and knocked three times on the cream-colored door, waiting for it to be opened. I heard quick footsteps on the other side and when the door opened automatically, I felt a flush bloom on my cheeks as I took in Arnold then—at eighteen, he was a gorgeous specimen that left my mouth dry and my senses off the charts. I found my smile then as he stood there and stared at me, and I opened my mouth and said, "Hey, Arnold."

Arnold stared at me for a moment, almost as if he was tempted to smack himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming. The moment passed, however—fleeing from his eyes as they roved over me. "Hey, Helga," he said, and his voice was hoarse, and I wondered then if he was pleased to see me. "I... I wasn't expecting you...here. In New York," he said.

I shook my head. "Spur of the moment, you could say."

He leaned up against the doorframe, in a deliberate attempt to be casual about the whole situation. "What can I do for you?"

I lowered my eyes. "I know I said you could date in New York—well, here—but I hated myself for saying that, with every fiber of my being," I said in a rush, and quickly raising my eyes back to his. "And I also know that it was wrong of me not to come clean about the whole business of the contest picking me first."

"Gerald could have told me, you know, even though I knew it, Helga. I knew it for a long time."

I vehemently shake my head at him. "I know you did know about it, Arnold, but no, no. Gerald, he... He couldn't have—told you, I mean. I swore Gerald to secrecy; Phoebe too. And Olga..."

He raised an eyebrow. "Who else knows?"

I sigh. "Your parents," I reply.

He nods. "I suspected as much." He looks as if he is considering something for a moment, before shaking his head. "Why are you here, Helga?"

"Honestly?" I ask him, crossing my arms, feeling the weight of my breasts elevating, and I know then that the tops of them are peeking up from the halfway opened collar of the trench coat—something that even he doesn't miss. "Well, first of all, I wanted to tell you how awful it was to hear that you loved me from Gerald's voicemail of all places."

He nods, absorbing my displeasure. "Anything else?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact," I reply. "I wanted you to be the first to know that I've been accepted into Columbia University," I say, and watch as his eyes become riddled with a complex excitement. "I'll be joining the Law Department in a matter of weeks as a freshman."

"Is that it?" he asked, pretending like he was growing impatient.

"Not by a longshot," I reply.

"What, then?" he asks. "I've got a lot of work to do—"

I grin up at him then, and he cocks an eyebrow, confused at my expression. "Well, maybe you could do with a break," I reply.

"And why should I do that?"

"Because, you know why, Football Head," I say, stepping forward and throwing my arms around him, kissing him.

It is the few moments of agony that follow that pained my heart for years to come; it was only when Arnold's arms came around my waist and held me there, against him, that I finally felt complete. His mouth came open beneath mine then, searching for my tongue before he found it, and the very notion that his method of speech was comingling with mine sent me over the edge. It was when he pulled back then—only slightly to pull me completely into his apartment and to slam and lock the door behind me—that I let out a satisfied giggle, and he returned it with a growl as he pulled at the belt upon my trench coat.

I grinned at him, pulling away from him and pulling at the belt myself, which ultimately forced the trench coat off my frame and into a pool at my feet. As I stood there in the high-priced high heels, Arnold could only stare at me and what I had done, his eyes wide and his jaw dropped. I found myself smiling at his expression then, and he immediately took me by the hand and yanked me from the entryway and down the hallway, which led directly towards his bedroom. He then slammed the door behind me and caught me up into his arms, pulling me towards his bed then and gently pushing me down upon it.

As he rustled in his drawers beside the bed, finding what he was looking for, I watched and waited for him to undress in the semi-darkness. Once he did so, he positioned himself on top of me, his eyes never leaving mine as he adjusted himself, before he ultimately—easily, gently—put himself inside me. I gasped at the notion of it all—that everything from then on would change, and, I hoped, it was to be for the better...

"Helga?" he whispered in the semi-darkness.

"Yes?" I whispered back, my eyes rolling back in my head.

"I love you," he said quietly, his eyes never leaving mine.

I smiled up at him. "I know. I love you, too, Football Head."

Arnold grinned at me, before lowering his mouth to mine again, and we experienced pure joy at the notion that we were now complete. Other joys included the notion that things were indeed changing for the better. And the final joy was the fact that we were finally, finally, finally going to be together, just as we were always meant to be.

. . .

12 YEARS LATER

After that, everything _did_ change—and for the better. One Christmas after I left, we got word that Samantha and Tony had tied the knot, and were expecting a child together—their second.

Gerald and Phoebe were going strong; Gerald had been sober for eight months by the time he and Phoebe got back together, but we all knew in our hearts that the waiting had been best.

My parents were still in denial about what they had done to Olga and me, but that was to be expected.

Olga and Greg had gotten married, and Greg had managed to adopt Eilis, and Olga had managed to expose Harrison for who he truly was, thus locking him up, and her getting Osias back, with Greg adopting him as well.

It was just days after my twenty-first birthday that Arnold and I got married, and, three years after that, I found out that I was pregnant. The timing was a little off, just weeks after we got our Bachelor's Degrees, but we neither of us could contain our excitement. However, just one month after that, I unfortunately suffered a miscarriage, but Arnold, ever supportive, told me that we would be able to try again as soon as possible, and that's exactly what we did.

"Mama, brekkie!" shouted Edgar, our three-and-a-half-year-old, who always wanted what he wanted immediately. "Hungry!"

"Coming," I said, making my way into the kitchen. "Arnold! Come on! You've got that important meeting with the city commissioner today to build that monument in the park!"

"I'm coming, Helga," Arnold said, coming up behind me and making a grab for me behind my waist, placing his hands on my swollen midsection, his lips contacting with my exposed neck. "How are my girls?" he asked, turning me around to kiss my belly.

"Annoyed because they want their breakfast, too," I reply, kissing him on the cheek with a sly smile. "And partially because their mother has a meeting today that could determine weather or not she could make partner."

"And has their mother thought of names for them yet?" he asks, crossing over to Edgar, who we had named Edgar Miles Shortman—after Edgar Allan Poe and his father, respectively. Arnold kissed Edgar's forehead, before getting a package of plain oatmeal out of the cupboard, causing Edgar to scream in protest.

"No, Daddy, no!" Edgar said. "Apple cinny-mon!"

"Oh, a thousand pardon," Arnold said, trying not to laugh as he got out the "correct" packet and brought it over to the stove. "Well?" he asked me, as I opted for some plain yogurt.

"Emily Stella and Sylvia Phoebe," I replied. "Emily for Emily Dickinson, Stella for your mother, Sylvia for Sylvia Plath, and Phoebe for... Well, our Phoebe," I said with a grin.

Arnold smiled. "Gerald's really investing a lot of time into this project," he put in as he filled a pot with water. "And I know that Phoebe's taking time to publish that work of poetry, but I just hope that their little Helga isn't being neglected..."

"She's keeping their Arnold in line, I think," I put in.

"Is she now?" Arnold asked.

I nodded. "Yes."

Arnold turned on the burner slightly before stepping forward, snaking an arm around my waist and pulling me to him. He chuckles as the squeal escapes my lips, before he leans down and kisses me deeply. "Do you think you keep me in line, then, Mrs. Shortman?"

I cock my head to one side, thinking about it. "I like to think so. But I think you do the same for me, too."

"Oh, really?" he asks.

"Really," I reply, moving his hand to where one of the twins is kicking. "So what do you think of the names?"

"I think they're perfect," he replies, kissing me again. "Like you."

"Perfectly _im_ perfect," I say, grinning up at him. "But I think that's why I fell for you in the first place, Football Head."

"My imperfections?" he asks.

I nodded, turning to Edgar, who has his father's hair and eyes, but my mouth and, rather unfortunately, my nose, and yet it looks beautiful upon his face. "Yes, because that's how we made something so perfect."

Arnold pulls me lengthwise against him. "Would you do it all again?"

I lean my head down onto his shoulder. "Not the lies," I say quietly. "But I think we both got we wanted, in the end."

"You can say that again," he replied.

I giggled, looking up again. "Anytime, Football Head. Anytime."

THE END


End file.
